Day 3 – September 2024 – İstanbul: Beyoğlu and back

not in chronological order but a nice snap to start on, for an area full of shops selling musical instruments.

Here’s where, after tram and subterranean cable car, we popped up: yes, it’s Takşim Square, next to Gezi Park. Remember 1977. Remember 2013. Remember Standing Man. I stood, in remembrance.

and here we are approaching İstaklal Caddesi on the descent to Galata Tower.

a Hausmannian architectural landscape. But for the mosques we were in Paris.

ducking in past the tourism police to this very pretty and somewhat neglected church, Santa Maria Draperis.

Nothing of note … on the caddesi international brands dominated. We passed through security into a department store for the use of its amenities and bought very small portions of sugary loaf stuff, one with pistachio, nougat-like, one, although tempted by the saffron coated, with pomegranate. And continued down as far as this,

a dog and cat slept at the foot, on the base of a monument to Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s father, the Ottoman clockmaker who came from Switzerland, who left his wife to, Isaac, explaining what without the explanation would appear to be a strange affectation, that of wearing caftans, on Jean-Jacques’s part, and a turban.

to the snaps to capture in passing the lower part of the slope; we did not feel the need to join the throngs pressing up the inside of the tower.

and veering off, having spent time in the best Turkish towel-type textile shop imaginable, for Turkish coffee:

The view from there:

You see the empty chair? soon to be filled. The cities and towns are filled by men on chairs.

I went in to the loo. A guy was sitting on the seat, the seat down. He smiled got up and wobbling out headed down the road.

When I went in to pay the proprietor and I chatted  about coffee and on hearing where we came from he produced a bag of his coffee:

Instead of returning to the main drag, we circled back around, on the hill, high above the Bosphorus. On a wall, this,

And there was a bookshop there with a cafe, twin staircases ascended to a mezzanine, books in each riser. These looked good,

(the lower of the two)

(the higher one)

and outside:

lunchtime had crept up on us. We went up here,

circling back,

around,

This was the place opposite the bookshop.

the last line of John Ash's Anatolikon

 the road is lovely as if there were no death.
 
At the bookshop opposite Pera Palace
 they did not know him when I asked and
only grudgingly looked him up on my insistence
 he lived for many years in Istanbul, an
English poet, what? Poet. Poetry. Where is your
 poetry?
 
the Way is like this, lovely, as if there were
 
 no death.
 

Caught in a familiar eddy of streets and alleys …

that each time looked the same but were different or each time seemed different but were the same,

Near here we found a place which looked ideal, had surveyed the prices. They were OK. Sat, and the waiter came to us, turned the menu over, doubling the prices. We left.

We found a place where there was a diminutive and perfectly manly man and ate aubergine and mince. Again noting the male rituals taking place around us, the older ribbing the younger men, the younger necessarily growing into their roles to follow their elders’ example.

It was by this time nearing our appointment. We thought we had time for the spice market, back on the Western side.

And soon had to race, up and up the hill, through underwear land, sexy underwear land, which gave way to children’s wear land, as if as a consequence, out an archway where a realistic underwear model was,

Past punters munching down on delicious meals of whole capsicums and green type things. Which brought us to,

Constantine’s or the Burnt Column or the Ringed Column. We were still no nearer.

There was no more time for snipping snaps or shaping shots. We were on our way to the Suleymaniye Hamam. And we got there.

The door was locked. An obsequious doorman grudgingly opened the door. We entered the splendour of this, the oldest hamam in Istanbul, designed by Sinan. Were handed bottles of water. And then asked for cash.

Cash?

Even the smallest corner shop takes cards. What’s more we were given the price in euros. 56 or 65.

We have not any.

To the bankamatik! said the man who smiled. So we did.

Halkbank refused to give us any. We tried again. No. Halkbank turned us down.

Trudged back up the alley to the hamam, offered to pay for the water. Canceled the appointment.

Sat opposite under a tree. A little cat came and sat on me.

We were disappointed. But had we liked the feel of that hamam? or the attitude of the staff?

Or the atmosphere?

Not at all.

And so we thought thank you Istanbul and thanked the cat.

It wasn’t too early to head down to Sultanahmet, beyond Ayasophia, to our rooftop dinner.

It wasn’t the best food. The wine was too pricey but the attentions of the waiter, who just at the crucial time came up with tea and sweetmeats, made up for it.

I had not thought I’d photographed the outside but here it is.

And for us there whirled a dervish,

We walked down as far as the Blue Mosque and this,