Not Constantinople

From the sky, it had seemed like the city that went to the edge of the horizon - red rooftops pushing out from either tiny plane window.


When in line for a Visa at Ataturk Airport, I realized that Istanbul wasn't pushing out. Turkey is the center of the earth - everyone was pushing in.

Behind me, three Spanish senoras muttered gossip in Castellano. Through the unveiled and thickly mascared lashes, an Abu Dhabi woman's eyes sputtered around the room until she found her searching husband. A 6'10" 20something clutched a Danish passport, matching his University of Copenhagen sweatshirt. Two Japanese pals giggled through those mouth-masks that probably don't protect you from the germfest.

Forget Midtown East: you have the commonfolks' United Nations waiting among the roped-off lines to make it into the meshed mecca of Istanbul.

And one very stern man took $20 and my passport and didn't even stamp it or anything. Apparently, that's a 'visa' in Turkey. You don't even have to tell them where you're staying or for how long. You have 90 days, and they have no way to find you after that.

We found my aunt jumping the hoards of limousine greeters and long-lost loves beyond baggage claim. She's been living here for a decade, in a Middle Eastern Ikea-style townhouse/art studio in the Beyoglu neighborhood squished between a mosque, graffiti, stray cats and ancient cobblestone.

Hopping in a taxi, we round our way down the fitting scenic route, right on the Marmara Bay. Old city walls hold up the edges and a new subway-friendly bridge is connecting the two sides of this fragmented, dirty, six-story city straight out of an Inception dream.

It's too big, it's too much. We'll need more than a week. Or maybe we're driving in circles?

After a little tea, a shower, and some excellent cheese and olives, I am here.
Mind and body, functioning about 82 percent.
A prayer call will certainly wake you up. Five times a day. Good neighbors to have.

The twisting, crooked streets are Moroccan marketplace meets Le Marais of Paris. The cars chase you down the skinny sidewalks and vendors invite you in to try an olive or a bit of cheese.

After an hour of wandering, we walked back home with a garden of veggies, stuffed grape leaves, tahini bread, and famous baklava in four flavors.

Now I'm dizzy, but ready for dinner with my uncle's mother and her cousin. Who are not related to my aunt or me or my mother. But, in our family, anyone is family. I hope they enjoy the earthy kale-leek-carrot soup for dinner. I was planning to eat all the baklava, but these guests brought wine, so maybe we can barter...

Welcome to a city of dirt, minerets, hookah, and endless noise and light.