In Turkey, I seem to be following the call to prayer. It
happened last night as I arrived, awoke me this morning, led me to the Blue
Mosque at noon and I hear it now, just outside my window as the sun sets and I
sit to write.
Prayer resonates through the hills and over the sea. I don’t
know the words, but understand the longing. When I asked the hotel clerk about
it last night, he responded: “What call to prayer?” Is it so ingrained locals
don’t hear it anymore? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if prayer were as natural as breathing?
I am more than not
lonely in a city where I don’t speak the language (shame on me as I was
traveling so many places and life circumstances kept me busy at home
beforehand), arrived in the dark, have made some major faux pas, yet learned so
much by doing so. I understand I don’t want to travel perfect, which is a good
thing since I planned ten legs of flights, two airbandbs and a guest house on
my own. Something. Will. Happen. And in the happening growth occurs. Mine.
For instance, I pondered the local hamams, Turkish bath
houses, online, selecting the one that had what I wanted. Because I had not yet
gotten a local SIM card to make inexpensive calls, I asked the clerk downstairs
to make an appointment for me. He advised me it was more expensive that in
should be. I thought, perhaps, he was pitching the one the hotel recommends. He
pleasantly did as I asked, then gave me walking directions that happened to
wind past important mosques and provided a sense of where I am. I am learning
that I need to scope out, on my own two feet, where I am. I walk all the time
at home. Why not here?
Also because I did not yet have the SIM card, I relied on a
relic, a printed map. I promoted the use of a London Tube map to Autumn, the
daughter I dropped in London for a semester, since she had not installed her SIM and, in case, her phone
ever died. Everyone should learn how to read a map. My teacher was Ronda
Middletown Boxall, one of my first work buddies and dearest friends. We took our
vacation together after my first year of working after college. We drove to
Daytona Beach. Over those two days, she taught me how to read a map, one of the
most important things, besides friendship, she has bequeathed me.
Map in hand, I followed the patchwork of streets in
Sultanahmet not sure of the scale wondering how long it would really take. At lunchtime,
the wailing again drew me to the Blue Mosque. I stumbled, profoundly affected
by the sheer greatness of the architecture. Gathering my wits, I continued on
toward the bath, arriving early as requested. I stopped at the wall of celeb
photos, then wandered in, my photo-tint glasses still dark, but not dark enough
to sense I may be out of my element. The staff was gracious, led me away to
fill out paperwork and returned, reminding me the price was euros. Shit, I
thought, that’s waaaay more than liras. Like nine times, what the receptionist
said, and about the crazy price at home. I could do it, but I wouldn’t. I
apologized even though they tried to find me a less pricey option and walked
away. This is not where the locals go, so neither would I. I wasn’t upset or
disappointed. Actually, I was grateful for the lesson and the adventure. I’d
loped some off my learning curve.
As I stood on the sidewalk, looking at my map and wondering
what to do, a gentleman approached me saying he was harmless and that he and
his wife have family in Phoenix. Before I knew it, he was inviting me for tea
at his souvenir shop. I was not in the mood to shop and graciously rebuffed
him. I got directions to the Grand Bazaar and decided to attempt that on my own.
Enroute, I stopped at a Turkcell
to purchase a SIM card. Seemed like a deal until I realized I was dividing
instead of multiplying, but the price of having the young guys install it,
answer all of my questions and have it work immediately was still less than the
daily AT&T rate. Yet another lesson in diving-in and imperfection. Figured
I needed a reliable map in the bazaar.
I grew smarter as I roamed the warren of stalls and
pathways, pulling my scarf over my head. MAGIC: no one bothered me anymore. Not
that it was a bother, but constant swaying toward this store or another was
draining. It was nice to be invisible. I don’t always like that. Still in the
scoping out mode, I made no attempt to look at anything because, here, that
means having a brief relationship – which
enjoy when I am in the mood and have the time.
I navigated my way out without Google maps and realized I
was hungry. The breakfast spread at my hotel is traditional and great (fruits,
cheeses, olives, eggs, pastries, breads, meats and dark coffee) but was wearing
off after all my traipsing. I dove in and walked closer to restaurants, let the
barker pitch his spiel, read the menu and lept. It was good: rustic salad with
a mountain of thyme on top, the freshest rice-stuffed grape leaves, a
thyme-and-lemon yogurt dip and gobs of puffy breads. I’ve broken my usual
gluten-free regimen.
I returned to my hotel, yet again to the ezan, call of the muezzin to the mosque. How is it to be bathed in prayer all day? I believe
it leaves a patina of grace and awe about a place. Somehow that reminder
mingles with my acknowledgement of imperfection like the blue dome of the
mosque bridging heaven and earth, human and divine, perfection and
imperfection. Istanbul is all this. So am I.
No comments:
Post a Comment