The Wifi faded during my shower, Lars is away at class, and I’m alone in the B-unit haunt of his Eugene quarters. It’s an appreciably chill space, Lars and a housemate share a semi-basement addition between them. They have a bathroom (with shower), a kitchen area (albeit stove-less), a good hang out area, and a bedroom apiece. The walls have a touch of institution-pallor, but the trappings of student life harmonize well with it.
All told, eight boisterous, sports-lovin’, dudes split the property. Lars and Robby live down here, with the other six holding down the main house. It is incommunicable how much they all love sports,— especially football. As I would be, the B-unit two are glad to avoid the hurly-burly upstairs, though the noise of stomping, as well as air hockey, are not entirely avoidable.
Soon the tides of time wash me back to Juneau. This is my fifth morning here, having arrived from Amsterdam (in Seattle) the evening of the twenty-second. It’s great seeing my brother again after so long, and I’m having a good time, but the academic year is revving up. It’s a temporal slap (if I’m going to pick one “image”) not to be a part of it. Not that I necessarily want to be a student again, not right this moment, not all of me. Never mind that, though, I’ve spent long enough on this little opening, and I haven’t put down a word on Istanbul, Paris, or Amsterdam, which I do plan on doing.
Istanbul—
Istanbul was positively intriguing. Bold, red, flags bearing the star and crescent of Turkey rippled in the fore of golden Minarets and their stately domes. Tea-laden couriers quickstepped through crowds in the streets, alleys, and markets,— sped to hosts of hyper-zealous carpet salesmen. Lounging, sauntering, Turkish cats, smugly entitled despite street life as only felines can manage, blinked from the small darkness’s— sills, plants, construction rubbish, shaded cemetery crannies— while luckier kittens played among tassel-y, shop side, throw rugs, or solicited Kebab morsels from diners. Istanbul steeped daily in wailing prayer calls. Speaker emplacements on the ancient mosques cast worship out over the sea, there to join kindred of a thousand years.
We spent the days, wandering, shopping, eating, and visiting historic elements of Ottoman times. Glorious weather charmed the whole stay, and a good thing too since we walked everywhere. Noon got hot, but often there came a breeze, and it didn’t rain once. Our mornings began with breakfast at home base (the Sultan’s Inn Hotel), often after a bout of sleep forbidding wails (from the mosques), and typically unfolded with a walk to some site— to be followed by lunch, copious straying, meandering, and inspection of minutia. Afterwards came restorative siestas, further wandering, further dinning, and whatever transitory sights night slid past.
I’d be seriously remiss if I left you with no impression of the great mosques. Certain design elements were present across the board, yet each mosque was distinct. The Blue Mosque, near the hotel and first in our exploration, is a cavernous domed building. Arches support the principle dome at the edges, and the structure, like most, widens near ground level to encompass further chambers and minaret foundations. To be frank, the main prayer area absorbed most of my own focus, to the point that I nearly omitted any reference to the overall architecture. But I should mention also the stone courtyard, its central fountain, the knee- height faucets (for washing before services), and the enclosing grounds— a nice swatch of flora within more stone walls. As I mentioned, though, the exterior was not my focus.
Islam does not abide religious images, but it’s adherents, and please excuse any misunderstanding, have contrived to bend the rules with their calligraphy. In shops one finds depictions of boats, lamps, and I’m not altogether sure what else— writ in creative Arabic brushstrokes and bound in geometric patterns. The exact identity of these images often eluded me, but their structure and character left no doubt that they were something. The mosques were covered, inside, with majestic ancestors of these calligraphic designs, often gold on green, but varying in hue. Some were arrayed in bands and lengths about the walls, and these were the numeric majority, but up above, on the dome, were immense circular designs. The largest occupied the center while smaller works (typically four, equidistant from the middle) quartered a circle and held fiefdom over the expanse. It was spellbinding. Hypnotic might be more appropriate. The effect of so much clever, beautiful, intricate, and inscrutable inscription was like the most relaxed, the most languid of subconscious determinations— as if I were compelling the walls around to release their secrets— assured in some ridiculous way that, if I looked on for long enough, the writing would shake loose and rearrange into a compatible format. These tiles, together with the Mosques themselves, conveyed a sense of skill, power, effort, time, and Order approximate to the shadow of a starry sky. However, the Aya-sofia, was too hodgepodge to be wholly included in those praises. It had arches, it had columns, it had tile. What it lacked was harmony.
The Süleymaniye Mosque I liked most of all. In terms of template it shared much with the Blue, but the stone set it apart. The supporting structural arches of the mosques are in plain sight, and whoever built the Süleymaniye was not unconscious of this. The blocks of the arches alternate between what is probably marble, and a soft orange stone whose exact color eludes me, though I can almost see it as I write. Whatever the name, it was that color that set the Süleymaniye apart. And maybe the place had more windows than the others, and perhaps the paint job was new, but it felt open, relaxed, and not as serious as the Blue.
I ought also to mention the windows and the woodwork. The windows of these mosques were honeycomb arrays of small, circular, and somewhat opaque glass panes. These qualities, I learned from Dad, are holdovers from times before practical sheet glass. The disc-pane is the consequence of spinning molten glass and allowing centripetal force to shape a (somewhat) uniform plane. This technique also accounts for the size of the individual pieces, which are limited by the tensile resistance of the glass (against gravity).
People look up in those mosques, hardly ever across, and almost never down. As such, the woodwork was never far from hand, but often further from mind that it perhaps deserved. It consisted mainly of doors, shutters, cabinets, and Koran stands. Tessellated stars were the most common motif, though it’s possible they weren’t truly tessellated, and were frequently, in part or whole, inlaid with mother of pearl. If the desire for further detail should overcome you, consult my father or a book.
We certainly took in the sights. So far I’ve touched on the mosques, with no mention of the subterranean Basilica Cistern— its upended Medusa’s and cruising catfish,— no mention of Top Koppi, the palace of the Sultans, the Mecca of tile. I’ve neglected the Grand Bazaar too: a total labyrinth (58 covered streets, 4,000 shops) of carpet, candy, lamps, jewelry, pottery, and cloth,— a place in business since the late fourteen hundreds. It draws between 250,000 and half a million visitors daily.
Of course there was more. I finally learned what a Whirling Dervish is, and finally locked down an image for Turkish Delight (every American child speculates on the stuff if they read C.S. Lewis). We drank authentic Turkish coffee, made a few local connections (or Dad did) . . . it goes on and on. In retrospect I shouldn’t have left this so late, should have updated continuously. The more I think, the more I remember, ah well.
P.S. – Why isn’t “resode” a word? Reside, past tense.
Paris—
In Paris events would not allow us to stay together, so I spent a few nights nearer the edge of the city in a hostel. I bought a five-day metro pass and rode back in forth in the mornings and evenings. Of course, it was a slight bother rumbling back and forth, but nevertheless an opportunity for people watching. There were performers, surreptitious gate jumpers, kids dodging and yelling, young business people, uncomfortable in ill fitting suits, bands of friends switching venues, entrenched bookworms, flushed, post-workout sports bro’s, and shuffling oldsters. Subways are commonplace to millions of people, but they’re still novel to me; not at all the trains, just the people coursing to and fro. People watching is easy in Paris, some 80% of the world’s beautiful people seem to have relocated to the city since my last visit.
We stayed out of museums except for one smaller exhibit in the Louvre. What we did do was walk, evaluate pastry (emphasis here), and see the everyday sights. Paris being Paris, this was in many ways as good as being in a museum. Actually, I’m remembering now, we did almost visit another museum Mom wanted to see, but it was sadly closed.
Amsterdam—
The scene arriving in Amsterdam was crowded to Chinese densities. A marathon was interrupting normal operations in another (the other, if memory serves) rail station, redirecting all traffic to just the one. No negative consequences, however, were endured and we reached the hotel easily. If anything, the bustle offset the dreary weather. We stayed in the city two days before Mom and Dad returned to Paris. I stayed on for two more nights (MUCH CHEAPER AIRFARE).
Most of the hours went to, wait for it, walking around! There really isn’t a better way to absorb ambiance though, save for moving to a place, so that was ok with me. Curiosities we discovered in the city included: canals and bridges everywhere, everybody on bicycles, homes without curtains, the notorious coffee shops, the Red Light District, and houses with funny roofs and hooks for drawing parcels to the upper floors. The canals were a pleasant surprise for me at least, though I got the feeling most people already knew about them. I must emphasize the amount of bicycle traffic. Bicycle traffic level: high. As my Mom noted, the whole country is flat, which makes cycling super convenient.
On the second day we visited the Van Gogh museum, and I honestly enjoyed myself. It was the baby-bear-porridge-bowl of museums. Prolonged expeditions in typical museums are like stuffing one’s spirit in a plastic bag and hoping it doesn’t asphyxiate before one gets out. But, as I say, this place was just the right size. The art wasn’t half bad either.
I kid, I kid. I often find paintings inaccessible, pointless, or both, but these were wonderful. Vivid is the word, too many paintings are milk toast. However, I didn’t enjoy the still lifes, never been a fan of fruit or flower vases.
Mom and Dad returned to Paris, I stayed on. The remaining time I spent chilling with other travelers from my hostel: The Flying Pig. Hostels are great. Sure, the accommodation is dubious on occasion, but you meet people so easily. It’s like a temporary little network if you land in a compatible scene. Such was the case this time: the room was lacking, but I didn’t spend any time in it except to sleep, so that aspect was minimized. The Flying Pig slept people like sardines, but their basement has some good couches and a nice flat screen. They’ve also got some other common spaces, breakfast is included, they offer free walking tours, and the price is hard to beat. Truth be told, there were many other economical options (several on houseboats) . . . but only for groups of two or three people. The same was true of Paris. Visit Europe with friends!
The End—
I’m back in Juneau and the blog is most likely at an end, for a time. It’s slightly possible I might add a post here now and again, but who knows, who knows. Let me know. If people want to hear what I’m up to (an assumption I will not make) I can find the time to write about it. For those who may have waited on this last post, sorry about that. It just kept getting more anachronistic . . . chuh!
