In which Princess Stefanie visits the Prince's Islands and meets a Prince Charming

This morning, we lounged around debating what to do for a while.  What a great luxury to have a vacation in one city for more than 24 hours. After all of my stefonstuff.blogspot.com study abroad adventures, I got used to the 2-day city blitz, where every 30 minute block had a new museum, park, train, gelato etc... In Istanbul, we sit around, shootin' the shit over coffee and tea, debating if the sun will ever come out.

By 10:30, on the cusp of being too late to do anything at all, we got moving and decided to skip Dolmahbace Palace and head straight for Kabatas Port for a one-day vacation to Prince's Islands.

We didn't even pick an island until we were already on the boat - that's how indecisive we are.

On the way to the port, my aunt stopped to pick up some cash in an illegal drug deal JUSTKIDDING but that's what the neighborhood looked like. While she got the dough for some photography and design work, we peered through the windows of her friend Christopher's design studio and watched some men unload a catering truckload of baklava. I actually don't know what the food was, but I hope it was baklava because baklava is totally delicious, particularly in mass quantities.

We continued on, passing my aunt's yoga studio, tucked above the local Little Caesars, which my mom found quite lamentable that such an awful pizza chain would (mis)represent our nation overseas.

On this quite leisurely walk down, I bought some tights, and continued to not know any Turkish, making local transactions just impossible. Notably, the store played old school Justin Timberlake in the background (Cry Me a River), so I was even more distracted when the shopkeeper tried to talk to me.

Next, with just 35 minutes to the ferry we were planning to take, I insisted we walk to a waterfront mosque down the road, next to a gas station. Classy.

Little boy, who do you think you are,
running past the gate? And making a great picture.

This turned out to be an awesome pick - Dolmabahce Mosque, the religious space next to Ataturk's final palace, where the clock has been set to the moment of his death...in 1938. As I deshoed at the doorway and stepped up in my new signature headscarf look, a security guard grilled me with the words, "Jami! Jami!" And I wanted to say, "I dont know what you're saying!?!?" but then he wouldn't know what I was saying either, so I decided to just smile and step back and avoid doubling miscommunication. We entered the small mosque to find an incredible chandelier and a small tour group.

We booked it back to the dock and got on the boat to the islands. Just 3.50 tl (under $2) to travel to a land of beaches and palm trees, the boat ride also offers sesame bagels, which people buy to throw at an attacking flock of seagulls, for the duration of an 80 min water cruise. These long distance water taxis take you through the Golden Horn, Bosphorus, and out into the Marmara Sea and have actual destinations - much better deals than the frequently-assaulting vendors offer for 'Bosphorus Cruise, 20 euro'.

Onboard, my mom made a buddy in the next seat over, our new friend Bara'a. He's an English teacher in the southern Turkish city of Gaziantep who introduced himself as, "From Syria, unfortunately." He had gotten a degree in English Lit at University of Aleppo, the city where he grew up as one of seven children. Syria is not the place to be now - Aleppo has been destroyed by the civil war and he has not been able to talk to his family in over a year. In his endearing cross of a British and American accent, asked to tag along with us for the whole afternoon. Your mother may have taught you not to talk to strangers. My mother is the clear antithesis to that statement.

Me, my aunt, and Bara'a - and a pirate ship.

The Prince's Islands were really beautiful and it was a 60s and sunny kind of day. We sat outside and ate some borek and pide and had slightly salty seltzer, and my forehead got the bright pinkish hue some call sunburn and I call 'funburn' because it means I had a good time.

Buyukada, the biggest of the four islands, is currently in the winter season. Shuttered houses, rundown tennis courts, private beaches and horse-drawn carriages mark the hilly cobbled streets of this cross between Key West and Gibraltar. Put it on your radar for future places to buy a private but not too lonely international summer home.

Bara'a tried to buy me a flower, which was a sweet gesture but I really have nowhere to put a flower right now since I'm going to two other countries in the next four days. It reminded me of when a friend told me not to be sold to someone in exchange for a camel. To be clear, I was not sold in exchange for marriage, a flower or a camel. Bara'a is my friend.

And if you know of any American university professors who specialize in comparative literature or English and want to help him get to a great Masters program stateside, let me know - I want to help him with his dream of an advanced degree. He's a scholar and a gentleman and though our lives are worlds apart, I think we'll stay in touch (thanks, Facebook). I even invited him to my future birthday parties, so he has to come to America.

Istiklal Cadessi -
tourist trap for spenders' and people watchers' delight

Bohemia, Brooklyn, or Istanbul?

We parted ways on the return to Taksim Square, where he was excited to go to Starbucks and I was excited to pick up some boots I had reheeled in an alleyway. Thank goodness for my aunt's language and local talents. The day ended with some shopping for inexpensive souvenirs on Istiklal Cadessi, eyeing gorgeously expensive shoes, and wandering into St. Anthony's - Istanbul's most active Catholic Church, where the recently resigned pope once visited, and you can't eat a hamburger or do PDA inside (says the sign at the front).



For dinner, we stopped by my aunt's friend's cave hideaway of a restaurant, all about fresh home-cooked Turkish Meze. We ate a feast of tomatoey bulgur wheat, cucumbers and hummus, cherry-rice stuffed peppers and fried zucchini pancakes in thick yogurt. At the end of dinner, mom and I both felt stuffed well, but also suddenly seasick, though our water journey had ended nearly four hours earlier.





My mom leaves tomorrow, which is sad - I was able to really relax and rely on her like a total child should, months before she has to move out and be independent. When I was tired, I literally had her carry me, bracing my arm. When I left the camera downstairs, she went to bring it for me and helped me decide what shots to keep. And when she packed her suitcase to leave, she repacked mine a bit, too.

Twenty-two, still can't ride a bike, still need my mommy. Other than that, I'm doing alright in the world. Better than alright. I fell asleep with the smell of burnt toast and the taste of rose tea, ready for the last day of this family vacation tomorrow.

Soon, I'll be adventuring with some Austrians in Vienna with the wild Sydney Wolfson, beforing being reunited with our hodgepodge NU family. There's a great week ahead - stay tuned!

Photosphorus

Since photo blogs are way more illustrative than my writing can sometimes be (aka, I'm exhausted. Two day blog break.), here is a short collection of the favorites so far. This gallery sampler exhibits my and my mother's strengthened ability to take pictures of one another because we don't like asking randos on the street. You never know who might take your camera and run, or just take a really crooked, poorly lit shot that wastes everyone's time.

We're making memories through the lens, all around the Bosphorus.
All today, all out of order.

Frame of reference: We stopped by the Arkeologi Muzesi (my Turkish is awesome), Gulhane Park, and the Mausoleums behind Hagia Sophia (a MUST see, that's even free but poorly publicized.)

Outside the house

View from a parking lot

Flashlights on flashlights on flashlights.
 Just what I wanted to buy upon exiting the tramway.

Mosaics from Nebuchadnezzar's Palace.

Go 4th century BC Cats!

Gulhane Park. I call this "Forced Smile on Lion"

We are so lonely in pictures.

Armenian Church since 1901.
Claims to be world's first... Not buying it.

Aladdin status.

There's a really old body in there.

Mom looks good in blue.  

Circle scarves and mother of pearl doorways.
Leading to many more sarcophagi.

The prettiest cemetery I've ever seen.
Apartment decor inspiration?

You can't buy a burial plot here.
Royal family only. But, they can't even SEE it.

Marble faces tend to win staring contests.

Girls Meets Homeland

I fell asleep around 11:30 p.m., just shy of my 22nd birthday.
I woke up at 2:30 a.m. and stayed awake until 7:45 a.m.
Street cats meowed at each other, fighting over garbage.
Around 4:15, a drunk man was shouting.
At 5:15, all the city's mosques turned up the bass for a crazy echoing adhan (call to prayer), which I recorded and sent to lucky friends on Facebook Chat. How's that for modern technology?  Beyoglu, Istanbul straight to the Core of Northwestern's library.

After hearing about my living situation here with my quite bohemian aunt, an Azeri refugee journalist she's been harboring for a month, and all the cats and minerets, my friend Sammie concluded I'm living some exciting new dramedy known as "Girlsland" - 'Girls' meets 'Homeland.'

Though this Istanbullu life features far less nudity, all the anxieties and enthusiasm I have for growing up are reflected in this city.

I was treated to a birthday breakfast feast including honey-soaked chocolate baklava, sesame circle bread (aka Istanbagel), lox, three kinds of cheeses, capers, tomato, cucumber, and more.

We headed off to run a few errands before hitting the big touristy sites of the day: The Hagia Sophia, The Blue Mosque and the Basilica Cistern - all in the Sultanhmet area.

Tramming across the Bosphorus, the day was already a lot less miserable than yesterday. Sure, it was cloudy and cool - but not nearly as frigid and moist (two words that feel as bad as they linguistically sound).

The Hagia Sophia dates back to 537 AD. That makes this great Ottoman church turned museum 67.09 times my age and effectively about that many generations old. The structure has it all - brick arches of an original mosque, marble blocks taller than my body, gold mosaics of Jesus, grand gardens filled with sprouting flowers and eroding columns...

As a history geek fascinated by interfaith cultural things, the ambiguous "Is it a mosque, or a church?" question baffled me from the entrance through the whole second floor. I left marveled but also a bit bewildered.

We headed across the street and ducked underground into the Basilica Cistern. I translate that as 'holy water.' Super unclear as to why Justinian had it built and why tons of fish now live in this great shallow pooled cavern directly under the city's busiest blocks. Two Medusa statues and more square footage than the neighboring mammoth mosque/church, the Basilica Cistern is a site worth a look.

When we exited, a friendly local asked us if we were British, told me I looked Turkish, and then informed us our next stop, The Blue Mosque, would be closed for a half of an hour. My mom and I then meandered really slowly across the street to a plaza with an impressive obelisk (intercultural history nerd heaven), and then lined up to wait for the end of the midafternoon prayer.

Following a crush of tourists, we deshoed, bagged our boots, covered our heads and ducked into the again very impressive architectural feat.

The Blue Mosque is not totally blue. The carpet had a lot of red going on, in fact. A lecturer sat at the front inviting all to learn the wonders of Islam, but he was speaking Turkish, so I had no idea. I was wondering at Islam just by standing there, so I suppose I inadvertently accepted his invite. My camera had died, which gave me a solid chance to actually look at the sites through my eyes and not a lens.

After exiting the touristy site, Birthday Girl (that's me) declared despite the 10 degree drop, we would go to a neighboring marketplace. Luckily, on the way we saw a real live TURKEY which has nothing to do with Turkey, other than the fact the two entities were co-existing. My camera luckily breathed a brief breath to capture this special moment before claiming to die again.

My aunt made friends with this carpet seller in the market who asked her to translate an email from Turkish to English. Weird, because we sat in his shop for a subsequent 45 minutes drinking tea and examining his wares while he explained everything... in perfect English. Habib was a nice man who admitted to not enjoying his business, and the fact that the vast majority of his wares came from other nations. I appreciated the honesty in a marketplace culture of tacky and cheap schemes.

Eventually, my mom bought a silk-embroidered pillowcase with my approval. We passed on the 1600 lira (885 dollar) bedcover and the 2000 lira ($1100) entryway rug. My 3 lira magnet mosaic has more value to me than those would anyway.

We timed our exit perfectly to catch a dazzling sunset over the Bosphorus before heading home to crash and make dinner plans (birthdaybirthdaybirthday) with my aunt's global non-prof consultant nomad friend in town.

I picked one of the city's most shmancy restaurants for dinner - Leb-i-derya. This place claimed the best city views and the menu, things I actually wanted (not kale, my so-far main food group here) - right for a birthday abroad! We ordered all kinds of yummy treats - spiced yogurt and salsa soaked nachos, pistachio salmon, eggplant with cherry rice, sea bass walnut carpaccio and cheesy red pepper. Even the bread and water tasted awesome. I recounted memories of all my best college experiences, from Paris to Evanston, and toasted to all the goodness that's ahead in life.

Glittering lights showed off more than ten mosques on hilltops, and thanks to the Kurdish New Year, we got a glimpse of fireworks blasting, between a maze of roof satellite dishes.

So, 22? So far, so good.

Minaret Morning, Rainy Day

Considering I woke up at 5:28 a.m. for 17 different days in January and February, I should probably not have a problem with a 5 a.m. wakeup call. But anyone who has ever had a sleepover with me knows I am the anti-morning person. And this morning, the alarm wasn't Apple's Marimba - it was a muezzin. Whoever composed the Adhan morning call to prayer did a great job. I should've put the clues together - a next door neighbor mosque, five calls a day, 24 hours in a day... The first had to come early. 

I rolled over and sort of whined back at the call, but it just went on and on for about 20 minutes. I think I heard the whole morning service, and the muezzin just forgot to turn the public PA off.

When I finally rolled out of bed at 11 a.m., I ate dinner leftovers as my mom tried to put food away midbite. As a treat, my aunt bought a tahini sesame glazed pastry, that I have since been snacking on and still can't call sweet or salty.

We walked in a light mist over to meet Linda and Sally at the Galata Tower. Our first major landmark! Woo! Tourism!

Just kidding. My aunt deemed the 1348 fortress visit unworthy for such a foggy day, so we sat and had tea in tulip shaped glasses, as every Turk does non-stop, easily averaging 20 a day. My aunt's friend Mukhtar came with a guy named Ed. Mukhtar is a Lebanese Parisian who stores his stuff in Maryland and has been spending some time in Istanbul. He's a non-profit consultant in grant-making and I liked everything about him, especially his bearded smile.  

We left Edtahr behind and went to see my aunt's documentary exhibition at SALT, an old bank turned art gallery/museum/cafe/library. They don't really do libraries (or toilets that flush paper) in Turkey, so the building is unique. Marble and carved wood exterior, stainless steel and glass interior. 

Her documentary, a study of all sixteen border sides (8 countries + Turkey) is shot beautifully and the injustices and tensions she and her partner expose through the lens are really fantastic. Quite the undertaking.

Next to her exhibit is a small museum about the building's history as a bank. I LOVE old stuff, so I had fun examining the yellowed bank notes and red wax seals, parchment record books with impeccable inked penmanship. 

From here, we walked down a million meters, vertical cobblestones and slick marble steps, to the tram station. Our party of five trammed across the Bosphorus River, past the Hagia Sophia to the Grand Bazaar. 

A wicked maze of rugs, silver, lamps, soaps, towels and useless junk, the Grand Bazaar is housed in incredible ruins of arched frescos and stalwart columns letting you know important people once inhabited it. Now, it's just a lot of foreigners buying things they really don't need. Tchockes on tchockes plus a ton of those pashmina fake scarves you get on 7th and 32nd for 3 for $12. Our Kansasian company was marveled.

We had a pretty mediocre lunch at a too-fancy restaurant over the neighboring Spice Market. You have to pay to sit and everything was made with gobs of butter. I'm much more of a streetfood girl - more filling and more yummy for your buck (lira). The restaurant came at the recommendation of a foodie cousin but I'm pretty sure he had lamb, and my creamed spinach surely paled in comparison. 

After, we mosied through a plaza to check out a top-notch mosque. I walked in and was like, "Now, we're talking." The chaos of ditching your shoes, covering your head, clutching your bag and fighting off pigeons is truly an art form. The beauty of a simplistic space with ornate architecture brings you a calm sense of wonder. I'm only sad that all pictures of me with my head covered look awful, but the ones of the endless tiled domes and crystal circled lamps are far prettier anyway.

Next came a wander through the less touristy avenues of the Spice Market, where my aunt bought some tea plates and my mom and I started getting cranky from the rain. My fingers and toes were soaked and cramping fast. We powerwalked to another smaller mosque through a mess of quiet alleys (a much happier me outside tourist crowd central). There, I bought a small tile magnet (likely made in China) to remind myself I liked it there. 

(This is beginning to feel very play-by-play. Sorry. Let me know if there's something you want to hear about.)

After a 30 minute trudge through the pouring rain, we relented and found a godsent taxi willing to take us close to home. Few drivers will because they think my aunt's neighborhood is the hood of Istanbul, plus the streets are teeny tinny.

Just as I lay down to nap, we get our third call to prayer. I think the muezzin can read my mind and is out to get me. Or maybe he's just trying to coax me out of jetlag. 

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.

Guten Morgen, Flughafen

Everytime the Swissair Maitre de Cabin came on the P.A. system, I giggled like the 4 year old behind me. "Guten Morgen, und ich danke Ihnen für den Flug mit der Swissair..."

I just haven't been around accents for a while, and pardon my laughter, but Swiss German is just straight out of an SNL skit. Delirious from a seven hour sleepless flight, I couldn't help but laugh again at the "Rundfahrten" sign as I exited the first flight and entered the land of the layover.
My mother rolls her eyes - the first of all too many eye rolls to come over the weeklong trip to Istanbul.

Switzerland is a very nice place. Or, so I can tell from the Flughafen Zurich's modern wood and steel aesthetic. And those stunning white-capped peaks that seem to taunt you as you ascend to the clouds.

I just do love the word 'flughafen,' and I'm glad I'll be stopping by there on my way home.

Hiccuping from the vegetarian meal served five hours prior (read: rice and vegetables with an acidic lingering in the trachea; unpleasant), I bounced through another round of too-friendly security checks, chugging that forgotten bottle of water, and embarrassingly thanking the too-helpful attendants in my native tongue, not their's.

I spent a moment being jealous of the bropack rolling twenty deep on their way to Dublin to celebrate my birthday, erm, St. Patrick's Day. I spent a second contemplating what some German girls ten feet from me might be chattering about.

How interesting it was that we're crossing paths loosely and will probably never see each other again.

And just like that, we boarded the next Airbus, surrounded by more crying babies and too many offers of coffee or tea from the overly-friendly Swiss flight attendants to one jetlagging New Yorker.

Pre-ChileChilling

[In case we haven't caught up in a while, here's the latest:

I graduated early, I got a job, I'm moving to Chicago sometime before September. 

Over the last two months, I spent several wintery weeks intensively babysitting and watching a lot of The Bachelor with amazing roommates in Evanston. I was living around campus and loving the familiar college life sans coursework. There were days where I thought that frequent coffee dates and free yoga classes was a lifestyle I'd be crazy to renege pre-graduation. And then it would blizzard, and I would hate Chicago and book yet another flight to somewhere else. And now I'm off to see what I haven't yet seen in ]

I followed the rules pretty damn closely from about pre-K on up. 

So, how am I now in some kitchen in Istanbul listening to a call to prayer from the mineret next door? Welcome to the new (short-term) normal.

Flights booked:

Istanbul

Vienna

Budapest

then, moving to Santiago, Chile for a month.

Hence, chilechilling.blogspot.com was born.

I am so grateful that I have stefonstuff.blogspot.com to document my study abroad travels, and I'd like to think I can now create content that's a little more selective, mature and introspective, without sounding like one long, cheesy proverb. (I do plan on eating a lot of cheese, though.)   

Hold me to the daily adventures, the colorful stories, the beautiful pictures, and the memorable mistakes. 

I'm on the scenic route. Stop by for a read - I'll be happy to have the company.