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Saturday, October 19th - Istanbul (Blue Mosque) - 13,425 km
Today is the day I have been dreading, the day I must load up my bike and cycle through Istanbul traffic to get to the youth hostel in Sultanahmet. Mario is kind enough to make me breakfast but he is very clear that I must move out right away so he can be ready for his wife and child’s arrival later this morning. His brusqueness is just his style and in no way diminishes my opinion of him. He is aware of his needs and he makes them clear. I respect him for that. I thank him twice, until I see he has had enough of that too. I take his address but he lets me know that he is no good at writing back.
I am on the road again, the first time in five days. It will be my shorted day of loaded cycling on this trip, but perhaps my most dangerous too. I coast down the steep hill with my brakes on, until I reach the Maullim Naci, and then I gently merge into the aggressive traffic, reassuring myself that no driver wants to ruin their day by hitting a cyclist. As usual, my worries are unfounded. Once I am moving at a steady clip, the Saturday traffic seems much less aggressive. I keep focused and attentive. Once I am over the Galata Bridge most of the traffic turns the other way. That which remains moves slower in the narrow, winding routes of the old city. In half an hour I am at the door of the youth hostel. I lock up my bike and stow my bags in my dorm room before setting out for the day.
I don’t find Ilio hanging around the Hippodrome or any other gathering place in the Sultanahmet. I have a sandwich, baklava and a Turkish coffee at a sidewalk café and watch for him. I had asked him if there is a place I can find him but not knowing exactly when I would show up it was hard to make plans. He was not willing to tell me where he lives. Perhaps he is living on the streets but his clothes did not look that dirty. Wherever he lives I am sure it is shared and very pedestrian. I am somewhat relieved not to see him because he will be anxious to hear what Mario could do for him. I hate to bring bad news.
Without Ilio, I can afford the admission to the main attractions on my own. The first I want to see is the great Blue Mosque, properly named the Sultan Ahmed Mosque, the largest mosque in Turkey and, I have read somewhere, the largest mosque anywhere outside of Mecca. The mosque is imposing on all sides. It is one of the most impressive buildings I have ever seen. Its stateliness almost compels one to bow down and beg for permission to approach it. It sits right next to the Hippodrome, on the former site of the great palace of the Byzantine emperors, facing the equally great and imposing, but perhaps less graceful, Hagia Sophia.
When it was constructed in the early 1600s it cause quite a stir amongst the Muslim legal scholars because it dipped deeply into the national coffers, while other great mosques had been financed on the plunders of war – the theme and motive of all powerful religions. It also raised hackles because Sultan Ahmed I designed it to have six minarets, the same number as the great Ka’aba Mosque in Mecca, which was labeled as arrogant and presumptuous. To quell his critics, he financed the building of a seventh minaret in Mecca.
The mosque has an enormous front courtyard, equal to the size of the immensity of the mosque itself. There is an arched colonnade that encircles it, which imbues the courtyard with an incredible grace. I linger here for several minutes just soaking in its elegance. Standing in the courtyard in front of the entrance feels like being encircled by the arms of an octopus of gargantuan size, the colonnade arches being the suction cups of the tentacles, the side domes being its eyes and the portico entrance its protruding beak though which I must walk to see the interior. The ‘embrace’ of the colonnade feels loving and protective, not menacing. Even though it is required, it feels only natural and obvious that one will leave his shoes at the door out of respect for its splendour and grace.
Inside, its beauty and magnificence increases. The size of the dome is remarkable, a culmination of Byzantine and Ottoman building techniques supported by a web of ironwork that helps the dome keep its integrity during earthquakes. According to our guide, it has survived 16 major earthquakes since its completion 375 years ago. It is called ‘blue’ for all the blue tiles used in the interior, though it is mostly whites and pinks to my eyes. It is fully lit in preparation for the evening prayer.
I float out of the mosque on a high, taking time to visit the washing (ablution) facilities that devout visitors are supposed to use before entering. Ooops. Sunset is already coming on. Speakers in the minarets blare out a call to prayer (this is my first time down here at sunset) and a crowd has gathered in a park to observe the call. As the sun leaves the upper domes coloured flood lights light up its exterior – another dimension of its beauty.
As I leisurely make my way back to the youth hostel through the noise and congestion of the megacity, I am telling myself I will never forget this visit to one of the world’s greatest architectural treasures. The call to prayer echoes throughout the streets of the old city, but it soon occurs to me that many of these ‘echoes’ are coming from other downtown mosques. They give an exotic feel to the city, and no nearly as irritating as the calls to prayer I endured five times a day when I visited Cairo seven years ago.
The youth hostel is coming to life too as its backpacking guests observe their own summons to the hostel cafeteria. I meet a few of the other travelers who converge here as they move between the continents. The ones coming from India complain bitterly about prices in Istanbul and those headed towards Asia from other European cities comment on how cheap things are. Aha, me thinks, it is best to travel from west to east. Some have stayed in other hostels and confirm that this one is cleaner and better organized.
A fellow named Derek, a wild-haired blond from Australia who shares my dorm, sees my cycling bags and is curious. I tell him my approximate course to get here, and he interrupts me with the question, “Are you the crazy Canadian who cycled though the war in Croatia?” Stunned speechless, I can only answer ‘perhaps’. How would he possibly know about me? Could there have been someone else? I tell him more and he nods knowingly, as if he’s heard it all before. Two Dutch guys passed through Istanbul and stayed at this hostel a week ago and they told everybody about me adventure. Ah, they must have been Hans and Hugo, the two guys I shared a tent with in Ioannina, Greece, the night before the big storm (Day 213). They were the first persons I poured my heart out to after the war.
Derek takes me to a Turkish pudding shop a few blocks from the hostel later in the evening. The Turks are famous for their puddings, he tells me. There certainly are several to choose from here. I pick one which, rather like cum, has an acquired taste, but Derek’s pudding is delicious. I don’t mind that mine tastes weird. I am hungry for new stimulations for all my senses, more so than I have been for most of my life.
PHOTO 1: Sultanamet (Blue) Mosque with election flags
PHOTO 2: entrance to the Blue Mosque courtyard
PHOTO 3: the front courtyard
PHOTO 4: the arched colonnades
PHOTO 5: the ablution stations outside the mosque entrance
PHOTO 6: interior of the dome with iron braces
PHOTO 7: the mosque from the gardens in the vicinity
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