Click on the Reason for the Season to see our pictures from Turkey (i.e the picture above)
Turkey for Christmas
By
Randall D. Ball
It felt like autumn when we landed in Istanbul mid-day on 20 December. My wife agreed that it was a welcome relief from the Abu Dhabi heat-and not nearly the bone-chilling cold that we had been expecting. A hotel representative met us at the airport and took us straight to our hotel, located in Sultanahmet, the traditional old town part of Istanbul, close to many of the city's most popular and historic sites. After an enjoyable afternoon stroll through some of Istanbul's old streets, we settled on dinner at a very literal hole-in-the-wall restaurant, where the manager showed us an extensive menu before telling us all he had was the grilled chicken. So grilled chicken it was-but maybe it wasn't, as it turned out. It tasted more like fish, but looked like the bad parts of an old, fatty chicken. Christine commented on all the cats in the area, an unexpected treat for Anastasia but hopefully NOT an unexpected treat on our dinner plates. We won't tell Anastasia about the feline kebabs.
The next morning, autumn had turned into winter, its bone-chilling cold making me miss the warmth of my Abu Dhabi home. Fortunately, breakfast was considerably better than our dinner of cat-fish-chicken from the previous night. Christine and I were especially fond of the cheeses and coffee, whereas Anastasia favored the yogurt, cold processed meats, and fruit juice. She's a really good eater.
Braving the bitter cold, which a severely-bundled Anastasia faced by alternating between shock and what appeared to be depression, we walked about fifteen minutes to the Blue Mosque. Anastasia bounced in her stroller, roared and growled at three or four dogs that were loitering at a little park outside the mosque. Fortunately, she was strapped in her stroller, or she would have fallen out in her excitement. She had had a similar exuberant experience with stray cats the day before. We take our daughter all the way to Turkey so that she can see and pet domesticated animals.
Reluctantly removing our shoes but thankful that the mosque inside was carpeted, we explored this beautiful monument, with its many domes and six minarets, taking our time before returning to the frozen tundra outside. We didn't last long before we entered a souvenir shop, where the owner admonished me about Anastasia's lack of winter wear while we thawed out in his store. She was already a baby burrito, but in his eyes that clearly wasn't enough. Once again returning to the cold, we stopped by a large fountain so that Anastasia could bounce and squeal and roar at a few more canines, and then we passed Aya Sofya (closed that day, a Monday) and entered the grounds of Topkapi Palace. The museum there was also closed on Mondays, so we started walking back to the hotel, stopping for lunch at another restaurant that apparently specialized in fish-flavored chicken. The lentil soup was good, however, as was the chocolate pudding, neither of which had any seafood-tainted taste.
After a two-hour-long respite at the hotel, which included Anastasia napping for some of that time-and thus Christine and I getting a brief opportunity to read uninterrupted and just relax (we were on holiday, after all), we again donned our winter shields and armor for a stroll around the Grand Bazaar, a huge marketplace of narrow, labyrinthine alleys and meandering pedestrian paths creating quite the shopper's maze. It is very easy to get lost in such a place, but it's also an exciting place in which to get lost: the throngs of an eclectic group of consumers and sellers, the smells and sounds of capitalism at work, the entertaining pantomime of bargaining for a deal in the different areas of the bazaar, separate areas for gold, carpets, handbags, leather, silverware, copperware, clothing, even belly-dancer costumes. We left empty-handed-that day, anyway.
On the way to the hotel, we made a detour to a little square nearby so that Anastasia could see her cats again. She pointed and roared and made what we think was an attempt at a meow, an incessant, growling meow, much like what one might expect from a rabid wombat. Dinner involved playing it safe; we ate in the hotel restaurant, which was an excellent choice. The restaurant was on the top floor, overlooking the city with a big, beautiful, romantically-lit multi-domed mosque across the street. We enjoyed our food with a bottle of Spanish wine, and nothing tasted like fish that shouldn't have. Anastasia had attention as well-from the waiter in the otherwise empty restaurant (in their defense, it was early for dinner-and it was the off-season). We were four-for-four, four meals in a row where the server, manager, or owner took Anastasia for a while during the meal, She loved the attention; one might say that was a ham in Turkey.
The next day started much the same: a wonderful breakfast, a humorous bundling and wrapping of the baby (and ourselves-but Anastasia's white, full-bodied fleece outfit made her look like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man), and a cold but short walk outside. This time our destination was Aya Sofya, which one-ups the Blue Mosque in grandeur, thus explaining the rather steep price for admittance. Aya Sofya was originally constructed as a church in 537 AD, then converted into a mosque nearly a thousand years later, and finally declared a museum less than a hundred years ago. The church / mosque / museum is known for its many-mostly Christian-mosaics; there were many instances where an Islamic crescent moon had been painted over a cross, but the Christian symbol still bled through. Aya Sofya was an impressive building, offering a pleasant way to spend a morning.
Either we were getting accustomed to the cold or the day warmed a up a bit more than yesterday, but the afternoon walk felt nicer. Anastasia slept in her stroller, Christine munched on some roasted corn on the cob, and I kept spotting animals that Anastasia would have loved if she had been awake. Our day concluded with another good meal on the top of our hotel (enclosed, of course-there was no way we were eating outside as the temperatures started dropping again).
In the morning we joined a half-day tour that started in a colorful spice market where we were accosted by numerous touts selling Turkish delight, saffron, spices, watches, perfumes, and on and on, where Anastasia gleefully visited a pet shop with dogs , fish, and leeches (yes, leeches-but we didn't touch them any more than we'd pet the fish), and where Anastasia ran into a huge flock-an entire sea-of pigeons that rivaled Trafalgar Square when the city of London used to condone such activities as city-chicken feeding for the tourists. Our tour continued then with the main event, a cruise on the Bosphorus, that famed strait separating Europe from Asia and reminding everyone that Istanbul does indeed straddle two continents. We saw two magnificent suspension bridges, a beautiful palace, and many incredibly chic homes along the shores before returning to port near the Sea of Marmara. Unfortunately, we didn't make it for enough north along the Bosphorus to see the Black Sea.
The following day, we did see the Black Sea-from the air, once Turkish Airlines finally found a plane that could get off the ground. The chaos began as our hotel driver made a wrong turn and took us to the international, rather than domestic, terminal at Ataturk Airport. Rather than try to make a u-turn on the road leading to the airport, he tried cutting through the parking lot, which led us right back to the international terminal. In his defense, he did make up for his mistake by taking our bags an walking us through the wrong terminal and through the long connecting hall that eventually led to the domestic terminal. He even went through security with us and deposited us at the appropriate check-in counter.
After passing through a second security point, eating a little breakfast, and entertaining Anastasia at an empty gate, it was time to board the plane. However, there was no plane to board. Thirty minutes later, our flight was officially declared thirty minutes late, meaning in reality at least an hour's delay. About ninety minutes later, we finally boarded a plane. The air crew went through the motions, demanding that everyone buckle up, even though the doors weren't even shut yet. A half hour after that, we were ushered out of the airplane and back to the terminal, with explanations only in Turkish. A few hours later, we were finally on a plane, headed for Nevsehir in the Cappadocia region of central Turkey, in Anatolia.
We landed in Nevsehir nearly five hours late, and of course the hotel's driver had long left by then. Weighing our options, we decided on a taxi to neighboring Goreme, about twenty kilometers away. We began doubting ourselves, though, when we saw how quickly the meter flipped from the flagfall of three Turkish lira eight to sixty and upwards. Finally getting Christine's cell phone to work, we dialed the hotel's number, and on the second attempt, we got through and explained the situation. Soon, the hotel owner and our cab driver were in a heated debate, but ultimately it led to a "discount" for us and the cab fare cost only fifteen lira (about $ 10) more than the hotel driver would have charged. It was Christmas Eve, our "easy" flight to central Turkey from Istanbul had been a tedious airport dilemma, and it had just been a long day.
Anastasia immediately fell in love with Cemil, our hotel owner, a doting father of a one-year-old son. He gave Anastasia much attention, and she took to him right away. Cemil was warm and friendly, inviting us to tea where we met his wife, and later, his son, also named Cem (the way he pronounced it, the name sounded like "Jim"). That night, Anastasia and I let Christine sleep while we went out for dinner, a father-daughter Christmas Eve dinner, where the staff at the restaurant just down the road from our small hotel was also friendly, showering Anastasia with yet more affection. The day may have felt disastrous, but the night-that night anyway-had a way of settling things down. That's when all the lights in town went off ... and the wild dogs started howling in the empty streets. The power outage lasted only about ten minutes, and then I rushed Anastasia back to the hotel. Christine slept through it. But as I told her when Anastasia and I returned to the hotel, we were in the city we had planned on, the very same day that we had intended, and it only cost fifteen lira more than expected. We were where we were supposed to be.
Christmas Day, after breakfast at our hotel with Anastasia eating up further attention from Cemil, we walked from the valley of Goreme Village up a small mountain to explore Swords Valley and its "fairy chimneys" and other rock formations created when Mt. Erciyes erupted over a thousand years ago. Along the way, Anastasia encountered an especially enthusiastic fan, an elderly local woman who pinched her cheeks and then gave them a rather vigorous slap. Anastasia looked shocked but recovered quickly. A dog then accompanied us up the mountain as we explored the caves and rock towers formed from the ancient eruption. Anastasia of course was thrilled with our canine tour guide; I was just glad that he didn't try to lead us to a carpet shop or other hard-sell, souvenir-infested tourist trap. Afterwards, we had lunch overlooking Swords Valley. The temperatures had warmed up enough that we could eat outside, with Anastasia wandering between the tables in between bites of homemade bread, chicken in tomatoes and onions, and manti (Turkish ravioli in yogurt sauce).
We spent the afternoon (after Anastasia's nap) exploring the village of Goreme, wandering its streets before stopping at a coffee shop for hot drinks and some wonderful chocolate pudding. Christmas Day ended with the temperatures dropping again. We enjoyed a pleasant dinner at Goreme Restaurant (the town is pronounced "Go-rem-AY," thus sounding like we were dining at a gourmet restaurant), where we removed our shoes (Anastasia too!) And sat on cushions next to a very warm heater. Christine and Anastasia ate some meze consisting of more fresh, homemade bread with yogurt sauce, hummous, white cheese, and vine leaves, and I ate a sizzling skillet of beef and eggplant.
The day after Christmas, we joined a day tour and hoped that Anastasia would behave without causing the other tourists any headaches or delays. She was wonderful, becoming an attraction herself. She received a few gifts, including a paperweight that a Korean man in our group bought for her and a pretty necklace that a shop owner gave her. She gets lots of bling and swag.
Our first stop was a mountain-top spot to look over the town of Goreme and its surrounding national park; it was raining, so Christine, Anastasia, and I spent a bit more time in one of the stores up there than at the overlook. The rain stopped shortly afterward, much to our relief.
Our next stop was the underground city of Derinkuyu, a massive safe haven for at least ten thousand Byzantine Christians during the 6th and 7th centuries when the Persian and Arabic armies tried to eradicate Christians. With Christine carrying Anastasia, we ventured lower and lower into the many levels of the underground city, squeezing through some of the cave tunnels that were constructed to fit one person-slowly-at a time as a means of defense. The warning signs at the front entrance (Dangerous if you have high blood pressure or any heart condition) should not scare one away; there is a bit of descending and climbing in some tight spaces, but it's well-lit and is nothing like the uncomfortable Cu-chi Tunnels in Vietnam.
We then proceeded to Ilhara Valley and its deep canyon, where this time I carried Anastasia down into the canyon and Christine and I shared the load from there. We hiked five kilometers along a pleasant stream, occasionally climbing and moving sideways between rocks, but it was a scenic trek that culminated in a nice lunch of soup, more of that chicken and tomato and onion in a skillet, and a cheese pastry reminiscent of a quesadilla.
Our next stop was Selime Monastery, a series of cave homes built into a mountainside. Anastasia had great fun running downhill in the sand into one particular cave. She is turning into quite the traveler. At age one, she has been to four continents and nine countries, not counting layovers at airports. She loves new places and people, and she's hilarious to watch in a hotel room. She gets very excited exploring any new place, from a hotel room to an airport terminal to a mountain cave in Anatolia in Turkey. She is definitely a product of her parents.
From Selime our tour group made its way back to Goreme, stopping first at Pigeon Valley, a place where pigeons are bred for their droppings, which are "harvested" for fertilizer. Pigeon Valley was another good photo stop too, and of course across the street was an onyx-making factory and showroom, where we were given a tour followed by an opportunity to buy. We didn't. Dinner that night was a repeat of Christmas Eve, just Anastasia and me, same restaurant, but without the widespread power outage. Thus concluded the day after Christmas, Boxing Day.
The next day, I took Anastasia in the morning, returning to Swords Valley. She hiked up the mountain on her own two feet (with dear old dad holding her hand during the more perilous bits). We met up with Christine for a simple soup and sandwich lunch at an outdoor cafe; it was just warm enough, but we were still bundled up. In the afternoon, Christine took Anastasia shopping in the quaint stores along Goreme's main street while I sat, drank coffee, and wrote.
Cemil drove us to Urgup that evening for dinner and a show, featuring Whirling Dervishes followed by folk dancing and traditional music and concluding with the usual belly dancing. It was a good way to end our stay in Cappadocia.
The following morning, I took Anastasia for a walk (sometimes she's like a dog; she needs her walks), and we saw eleven hot air balloons soaring over the town. The previous morning, Christine had reported nine of them. It's an unusual sight and an almost eerie feeling to see the balloons overhead and watch them emerge from behind mountains like some alien spacecraft. After breakfast, Cemil drove us back to the airport, although he didn't really get a chance to say goodbye to Anastasia because she was asleep by the time we reached Nevsehir. This time, our flight was uneventful, and we landed safely and on time back in Istanbul early that afternoon, where we checked into our hotel and crashed.
In our last few days in Istanbul, our pace slowed down considerably, partly because Christine was feeling ill and partly because we were tired from all the vacationing. We needed a holiday from our holiday, and the four-star hotel I had found for us was just the place to relax. I took Anastasia around town a bit each day, though, to give Christine some recovery time. My daughter and I checked out the architecture at Istanbul University, played in a mosque courtyard in the Aksaray area of town, and annoyed a pet store owner by spending time in his business with no intention of buying anything.
All of us went to Fatih Mosque near our hotel on Wednesday, market day. There was a huge market outside the mosque, and we strolled past dozens and dozens of vendors selling clothing, stationery, textiles, everything. Then we explored the squares around the mosque with its numerous cats, which of course left Anastasia feeling overjoyed. I counted about thirty cats in one area alone.
On New Year's Eve, before catching an afternoon ride to the airport, we made one final stop: the two-thousand-year-old Aqueduct of Valens, an imposing limestone structure looming northwest of the Grand Bazaar. We lunched on kebabs of grilled chicken and yet more homemade bread at the base of the aqueduct and let Anastasia run around the park nearby.
Our late-afternoon ride to the airport was memorable. The driver took the coastal road along the Sea of Marmara, heading west into a beautiful red and purple sunset that lit up the sky and reflected off the water. We hardly noticed the heavy traffic as we marveled at nature's well-timed show, a picture-perfect ending to memorable trip, Turkey for Christmas.
