Month: July 2025

June 7th, Cappadocia

Rick Steve tours are not intended to be shopping tours but rather a peek into the local cultural and history. Even with the best intentions, there are grey areas. The next two excursions are optional but the majority of our tour want to visit both the Turkish carpet factory and the Aladdin’s Pottery studio. As a craftsperson and a seasoned traveler, I have seen many such places before and I know that there is always the sales pitch and a showroom visit at the end but I want to go to see process as well as the beautiful goods.  Yesterday, Taylan told us that if anyone was interested in buying a carpet to know what size and color they wanted before hand. He also tells us that we should snap photos tomorrow of any we like because the choice will be confusing and overwhelming. I called John and have him measure the floor space in my office. If I were to succumb, I need a 5’ x 7’ carpet. The color is not much of a factor for me. 

It’s a short drive between our hotel and the carpet factory. We arrive at the carpet weaving factory just before 11:00 A.M. As obedient students, we sit and listen to our Magic Carpet host as he explains the various materials that can be used and the relative time and expense between cotton on cotton or wool on cotton or silk on silk etc. Two women sit before two looms, meticulously tying and cutting knots as they painstakingly weave their rugs. We move to the silk worm demonstration table and watch another man unwind the silk from a hundred unfortunate silk worm cocoons that have recently been boiled alive to prevent them from hatching and breaking their valuable silk threads. These filaments of silk are twisted together to make thread and yarn. From there the silk is dyed and eventually woven into a carpet. 

The educational part of the tour complete we are let to an immense room with stacks and rolls of carpet. We all sit around the room and they offer us Turkish tea, coffee, wine or Raki, a traditional Turkish anise flavored liqueur. It’s not yet noon so Art and I order tea but a few brave souls, Taylan included ask for Raki. The carpet show unfurls. Dozens of carpets are dramatically unrolled upon the floor and our host describes each one carefully but no prices are mentioned. A few of the first ones are kilims, flat woven rugs, not knotted rugs. The floor becomes a vibrant patchwork of color and when I see one carpet I particularly like, I take its photo and do a quick heel to toe measurement. My actions are not unnoticed by the attentive sales crew waiting by the sidelines. The show ends and it’s time for them to get down to business.

I’ve been in sales all my life and imagine the unspoken assignments between each of the sales team. “You Ahmet, take the woman who just took a photo of that carpet, I’ll take that couple in the corner, etc. etc.” It’s a game and a gamble about reading people but this showroom has a lot invested and they need to land a few big fish before our bus departs forever. I show my carpet pusher the photo on my phone and he unearths it from the layers of carpets spread on the floor. It is 5’ x 7’ with an intricate center medallion the colors of brick and blue with a cream background. It’s lovely and I am informed it is silk on cotton. I believe I am prepared to pay up to $1500 + the ambulance bill for Art to be rushed to the nearest hospital with a heart attack. I am subtly relieved when he tells me it is $22,000. It is so far beyond our budget that I laugh and think that I can step out of the game but ‘Ahmet’ is not one to give up easily. “What will you pay Madam? He offers it to me for $17,000. I chuckle again but he counters “Wait, let me show you some other carpets that are similar but less money?” I am simply not interested in playing this game but before I can return to the side lines to stand beside Art, Ahmet has already unfurled a few others. I finally escape to stand beside my husband but Ahmet’s eyes bore into me, following my every move. I avoid eye contact. Several other members of our group are engaged in potentially buying a carpet. I am fascinated and make the grave mistake to walk over to admire the various carpets Paul and Yu-Lin are considering. Ahmet must be a shape changer because every time I turn he is there proffering another carpet. I surrender to the sidelines again and soon enough Art and I spot an escape route and we slink out of the showroom to the safety of the parking lot. Back on the bus we learn that Paul and Yu-Lin purchased a carpet and Allie, purchased several as gifts for her children. We do not ask the prices.

Back on the bus we drive and have an hour to eat a touristy river lunch on our own before our afternoon visit to Aladdin’s Ceramic Workshop.

Our tour begins with a detailed explanation of the process and I watch two artisans at their work stations meticulously painting the ceramics. Before I became a jeweler, I was a ceramic major at University of Redlands and I understand the process and enjoy the simplified demonstrations of the craft. A woman meticulously paints a medusa head on a platter and a man paint detail onto a wine decanter styled from the ancient Hittites. Next, we are ushered into another room where we sit on benches along the wall and shown a kick wheel throwing demonstration. Drink orders are taken and it is now afternoon so many in our group accept wine or Raki. The young man demonstrates the process and expertly throws several pots and then asks if any of us wish to try?  I want desperately to get my hands on a spinning lump of clay but I could never overcome my shyness and do this in front of a group of people. Garth, a member of our tour volunteers to try and with some help throws a decent if off kilter vase. He has fun and we all enjoy his showmanship and congratulate him on a pot well thrown. We find out later that his hobby is turning wood on a lathe. 

Next it’s the showroom sales pitch which I am dreading. I want to look at all the displays but to be left alone to admire. As we enter, I see the sales crew size us up and divide to catch as many rich tourist fish as possible. I make the mistake of looking too closely at something and a young sales man wearing a green shirt circles in for his kill. It is pointless to try to outmaneuver him but just as at the carpet factory, prices are exorbitant and none of us have any reference as to the actual value of a piece. Art and I tend to collect special shot glasses from our travels and the Turkish shot glass is hour glass in shape. Art picks one up and a split second later has his unshakable shadow of a sales man. The lurking shadows ruin the experience for both of us. I simply want to escape and I try to find my way back to the entrance and I make a wrong turn in the labyrinth of rooms. I manage to slip from the grasp of the green shirted man. For a delicious minute, I am alone in a gorgeous show room but a sales woman soon discovers me and just like in a museum heist movie, I feign ignorance and I ask for directions to the restroom? She points me to the correct corridor and I find myself back in the first room where the craft woman continues to paint her medusa head. She speaks English and without pressure I ask her about the piece? She tells me she has worked a week on the plate and that it is a custom order to the U.S.A. She works from an image on her I-phone. It often takes me days or even weeks to sculpt and original and I work from a variety of photos. I do not work for 8 hours a day but I would feel accomplished to complete her meticulous project in a week. I thank her and exit while I still have the chance. I sit in the showroom garden and wait for the rest of our group to exit. I’m not sure if anyone succumbed to a piece of pottery but we board the bus and return to our hillside cave hotel.  

We have this late afternoon and evening to ourselves. Art and I rest for an hour and then decide to walk into the village. Several from our group are gathered in the courtyard enjoying glasses of wine from the hotel bar. We tell our friends that we are going to look for a bottle of wine in the village and Kathy enthusiastically calls to us and asks for us to buy a bottle for them too! We walk the few short blocks to the village center. There are several cafes with a scattering of occupied tables spilling onto the sidewalks. We walk past a few tourist souvenirs shops and disappoint the merchants by passing quickly by leaving only a smile. Finding a market or liquor shop is more challenging but then we spot a tiny market with a soda case outside and I spy several wine bottles sitting in the dusty window. The shop is tiny and therefore crowded. A man is buying cigarettes and a few kids beg their parents for sweet and salty snacks.  When our turn comes, we point to the dusty window display and to an upper shelf where we spot a few other dusty bottles. Art, in his best Turkish, conveys that we want a cold bottle of white wine. The merchant sets several bottles on the counter and we shop by label and price. Naturally, the bottle with the hot air balloon label wins our vote and it’s the same price as the others with less attractive labels. Miraculously, the man has two of these chilled and we pass our 1200 lire over (about $32) and leave the tiny shop triumphant. 

Back in our hotel courtyard we hand our prize over to Kathy and then Art and I sit contentedly alone on chairs outside our room and sip our wine before walking back into the village to find dinner. By the time we walk into town the restaurant where we hoped to eat, it is full so we choose an upstairs restaurant next door. We sit with several others from our tour and enjoy a reasonably good lamb stew cooked in a sealed clay pot. The waiter cracks the pot open and divides the contents between Art and me. We meander slowly back to our luxurious cave hotel and fall into bed exhausted. 

Almost all of our tour group has signed up for the optional hot air ballon ride for 210 Euros each. Only a few acrophobic or claustrophobic people have opted out. Two vans pick us up and we drive 30 minutes in the darkness to a hilly site outside of the village. We are deposited on empty spot on a rocky grass field. Even more than the ride itself, I am excited about the process of launching a balloon. It’s still dark but as my eyes adjust I see other groups of tourists gathered in the field and each group seems to have a limp balloon reclined on the ground nearby. Within minutes, many of these balloons begin to inflate and I hear the exciting whoosh of air as huge propane burners pump hot air into the balloons. Dozens of spots of fiery light dot the field and balloons glow in the dark, their colorful company logos becoming visible. Our trailer with our balloon is no where to be seen and I begin to worry. Where is our promised balloon? I am anxious more for the ballon company than myself. I relate all this to setting up a Marty Magic booth in the dark and think that “I would never be late to set up a show!” Minutes later our pickup truck and trailer arrive and I watch with fascination as the 4 man crew quickly unload, tether and inflate our balloon. Flames whoosh, our balloon grows quickly and we are not late for our launch. The balloon carries 24 people and is divided into 6 egg carton type sections, each accommodating 4 passengers.  Our balloon is soon tugging at its tethers and we are told to get inside. Art and many of our group easily climb aboard. Someone brings a step ladder over, I climb up and am hoisted from behind and Art pulls me from within. I am suddenly standing securely within our egg carton section for 4, the rim of the basket around armpit height. The grey morning light creeps over the fields and we are airborne along with a hundred other colorful balloons. Below is an alien landscape of eroded cliffs sculpted by wind and water over centuries. Many of the tufa cliffs are perforated with caves that I know we will get to explore later today. The landscape is grey and tan with rivulets of green and patchworks of cultivated farm land. I see the impossible fairy chimneys with boulders precariously balanced at the tops of their eroded pinnacles.  Colorful balloons like ours drift with the wind and we watch the sunrise. The sunrise fades into a grey dawn and we float in limbo watching the landscape below and the doing our best to absorb and lock this magical experience into our memories. 

We drift lower and I’m aware that we are nearing our landing site as we drift within a few feet of roof tops. Some of the balloons have already landed and they look like soft pillows as they slowly deflate and lie on the ground. I spot our trailer below and am amazed and delighted when our ground crew manages to catch our tether to land our egg carton balloon basket upon the trailer. A few agile guests climb out. A stepladder is raised to those of us less athletic and I climb up and swing a leg over the edge of my basket and a pair of hands grab my waist and lift me down onto the field. I watch the crew secure the basket to the trailer, deflate our huge balloon and tuck everything into a van. Several champagne bottles pop, plastic glasses are passed around and the pitch for tips begins with a suggested tip of $5 each. Most of us dig into our pockets and awkwardly place paper lire into the proffered empty glasses. 

Our transport vans are waiting and we are soon back at our cave hotel in time for breakfast. We are all exhilarated and we chat excitedly over a delicious buffet breakfast similar to other’s we have enjoyed but somehow tasting better due to the magic of the morning. 

I could use a nap but we gather at 10:00 A.M. for a village walk of Mustafapasa. Our hotel is in a small hilly town with cobblestone streets and many of the houses are literally built into the hillside. Its spring and bougainvillea climb ancient walls and trellises. Jasmine and wild roses perfume the air. We pause to take photos of picturesque wooden doors with peeling paint and tilting fences. Dinner tonight and tomorrow will be on our own so Taylan is orienting us to our village and he points out a few local cafes and restaurants where we might want to dine. 

After our 45 minute walk of Mustafapasa Village we board the bus for the short drive to the Open Air Museum in the Monastery Valley of Goreme.  By 11:30 A.M. we are hiking towards the entrance. It’s hot already and I look with dismay at the long uphill path we have to walk. There are multiple early Christian monasteries and churches carved into the tufa rock walls. Many of the interiors have detailed fresco paintings on the walls and ceilings. We climb many staircases to access the various cave churches and monasteries. Two other caves that we enter have long tables with benches carved into the rock floor. I think of the complexities of feeding everyone. It is obvious that this is and was a fertile valley so the area was a thriving village of farmers, cooks and every possible trade needed to support the chain of supply. Incredible effort and manpower would have been needed to supply water, provide sanitation and to feed those who feasted at these in-ground banquet tables. We have several hours to explore the area. I am surprised when I see a Cafe sign outside one of the lower cave entrances. It’s cool and dark inside and I rather want to sink onto one of the worn pillows and pay the inflated tourist price for a cup of coffee. Art demurs and we explore more of the caves before returning to our bus. 

If anyone is wondering why Art is continually carrying a large green tape measure or film reel in many photos, it’s neither of those. During the entire trip, my kind husband packed a green telescoping stool for me to sit on. Although my adventuring spirit is still bright, I’m an old gal now and my back is bad. Whenever our tour group would stop to listen to our guide, Art would inconspicuously unfurl the stool so I could sit. At Monastery Valley a woman in our group asked him what the green thing was and Art who had just visited the restroom flashed “Oh Sh*t” and ran back into the restroom to retrieve it from the hook on the stall door.  

It’s nearly 2:00 P.M. before we arrive at the private home of a wrinkled old woman for a simple but flavorful lunch of beans, bulgur and salad. Our group of 28 crowd into a sunroom off her simple terraced house and she and her son serve us as Taylan translates for her as she talks about her life.  Many of the members of our group, myself included, are as crinkly and smiley as she is. After lunch she pulls out some of her crochet work and offers it for sale. Several of the women in our tour buy a crocheted edged scarf or a babies sweater. I consider a sweater for our future grandson but come to my senses realizing how truly unsuitable it is and that I have little or no extra room in my suitcase. I do not want our son or his girlfriend questioning our sanity or taste. Our sanity is already in question. 

There is no rest for the curious on a Rick Steve’s tour. Don’t sign up for one if you want a laid back day! We bid goodby to our lunch time host and hostess and drive the short distance to the underground city of Kaymakli. Predating back to the second millennium BC when invading armies were common, locals built warrens of underground cave cities where a thousands could shelter for months at a time.

Taylan cautions that any claustrophobics might want to forgo this visit explaining that there is a long section where one must hunch and once past a certain point,  you must commit to the entire visit. It’s extremely interesting and I am not claustrophobic but my legs are wobbly from days of over exertion and I go only as far into the complex as the point of no return. Taylan leads several of us back to the blinding light of day and I wander the usual tourist gift shops outside the cave entrance. I am not much of a souvenir shopper but wanting to sit at a shady table, I choose an ice cream bar, the price of a seat and sit happily and wait for our tour to return.  

Friday May 31, 2025

Our flight to Turkey through Frankfurt leaves Friday night at 7:25 P.M. Our son John drives us to SFO. and there is surprisingly little traffic on a Friday afternoon. John drops us off and after quick hugs at the curb, Art and I hurry inside to wait in the United Airline line check in line that usually winds endlessly back and forth but the line is non-existent and we are checked in and through security in a matter of 15 minutes with nearly 3 hours to wait before boarding. We share an uninspired fast food curry meal and then find a bar where we can each enjoy a drink before boarding. Time passes slowly but it does pass and we eventually board our aluminum cylinder. As we board, I gate check my bag realizing that there will not be enough overhead space. We squeeze down the aisle passing spacious private lie down sleeping cubicles and wedge into our back window and center aisle seats that are especially dismal. Art and I are relatively small and usually the financial savings offset the discomfort but I am soon regretting my choice of United Airlines vs Turkish Airlines that had been recommended to us by our travel agent. Drinks take forever to arrive and by the time we are served, there are no options other than a micro-waved chicken dish that is nearly inedible. We each watch a couple of movies. I choose the Bob Dylan one ‘A Complete Unknown.’ Between the roar of the engines and the bad ear plugs, I can barely hear the movie, which is disappointing since much of the point of this movie was the nostalgic soundtrack. For the second time, I disturb our aisle seat mate to use the bathroom and take a Zolpidem tablet and manage several hours of sleep before being awakened to a dismal breakfast sandwich.

We must change planes in Frankfurt and we deplane and walk many gates down before realizing that we have forgotten to pick up my gate checked bag. After 30 minutes of anxiety we are assured that my bag will meet us in Istanbul and we exit the terminal not fully grasping that we need to change terminals and go through security a second time. Happily we have time but we walk 30 minutes along eerily closed gates and terminals with no human activity. We hurriedly grab a to-go salmon salad minutes before our flight between Frankfurt and Istanbul is scheduled to board. A booming announcement over the P.A. informs us that our flight is delayed 30 minutes because of weather and then it is delayed again. We eventually board only to sit on the tarmac. It’s hardly drizzling outside the window but we wait another 45 minutes because of lightening danger to the workers on the tarmac. Eventually our plane takes off and 3 1/2 hours later lands in Istanbul.

We are nearly two hours late to arrive and there is a long line to get through immigration but unlike most people, I find these lines exciting and a highlight of traveling. The line winds back and forth and we get to greet the same tired faces over and over again. I know each traveler or family has a remarkable story to tell and I love not being in Kansas anymore. Exhausted fathers carry sleeping toddlers, mothers calm crying babies, teenagers stare into their phones. I watch three dark and handsome men in their mid 20s preen their hair and take selfies, presumably to make certain that they look their best when they exit immigration to meet their sweethearts or families. I give them a big smile and a thumb up and we all laugh. Miraculously my suitcase has arrived in Istanbul with me and we have pre-paid for a transfer to our hotel. The airport is huge with many exit doors and Art finds the exit door listed on our transfer conformation. There is no one outside holding up a BOBROSKIE sign and we feel somewhat abandoned but Art finds the lone man absorbed on his phone who confirms that we are on the transfer list and he ushers us to a dilapidated mini-van. The cavernous interior, soiled upholstery and the streaked and finger printed windows assure me that I am on a travel adventure. The outskirts and industrial parts of Istanbul glide past in a hazy dream of jet lag. It is an hour’s drive from the airport to our hotel in the heart of the old town and as we near, we begin to see illuminated domes of mosques and minarets piercing the black sky. The old town is hilly and our funky limousine winds up steep and narrow cobblestone streets and deposit us in front of our 5 star back street Demiray Hotel. It is sandwiched between ancient buildings and the entrance is far from grand with the doors flanked by two strangely lit faux gilded marble statues. The lobby is cluttered with an odd mix of upholstered couches, chairs and end tables. We hand our passports over and I am relieved that our reservations are in order. We don’t need a porter but our minimal luggage is taken from us and we are shown up to our 5th floor room. It is small but lovely and the porter leaves quickly and we begin to settle in.

Art suddenly realizes he is missing his back pack and our hearts stop. He races downstairs and I pray it is in the lobby and that Art has not left it in the departed limousine. Minutes later, Art knocks at our door with backpack in hand. We take quick showers and slip into bed exhausted.

Saturday, June 1st – Istanbul

Although we could sleep longer, we have set our alarm for 8:00 A.M. to be sure not to miss breakfast. Our hotel has a roof top dining room with a remarkable view of the Golden Horn and the Bosphorus Strait. Minarets and the domes of Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque shimmer in the morning sunlight. The breakfast buffet offers most everything one could imagine. I push a button on a fancy coffee maker and a cappuccino spits out. There is a vast selection of cheese, breads and pastries. I can’s decide between the beautiful plates of sliced fresh fruits or the plates of sliced cucumbers, tomatoes, arugula, olives and meze dishes. Every possible type of jam is available as well as a hanging block of honey comb and I slice off a chunk of the honey comb and rather than using and wasting tiny disposable dishes, there is a stack of short edible ice cream cones. I pass on the three hot serving dishes of eggs and cheese blintzes and stir fried vegetables. I fill a bowl with plain fresh yogurt and top it with fruit and honey. I eat a morning salad and a piece of bread with goat cheese and honey. 

After breakfast we walk down the very steep cobblestone street towards the sea. Our hotel is in a wholesale garment district for children’s clothing and tiny suits and frothy little girl dresses hang in the many shop windows. It’s  a busy morning in this area and men haul sacks of clothing upon their bent backs straining up the steep street delivering inventory to the many stores in this district. Men take their tea and smoke breaks clustered together around tiny tables or sitting in doorways and upon parcels needing to be delivered. The air is alive with the promise of a profitable day ahead for these shop keepers. We descend several flights of outdoor steps and the street levels off.  We cross intersections with care as drivers do their morning commute. We are in the heart of the old town and retail shops and cafes line the narrow streets. Art has been wanting a haircut and he inquires the price from a hefty, tattooed barber. It is 300 Lire or about $8.00 and I hear that the price is for a hair cut only. I sit in the back and happily watch as the barber performs his magic. The hair cut looks good and the barber asks if Art would like his ear hairs trimmed? Art nods but does not ask if the ear trim will be extra. Within seconds, the barber has two rolled newspaper cones stuck into Art’a ears and lights them on fire. Two torches burn from Art’a ears and I am amused and delighted. The barber is cleaning out ear wax along with any stray hairs. When the flares burn out he unrolls the cones and points to some waxes residue on the paper. Art thanks him and rises to pay but the price has changed from 300 lire to 1100 lire. I feel the entertainment was priceless but Art grumbles for the next few minutes feeling swindled. We meander down towards the water and find ourselves on a covered market street. Tiny shops are selling a mish-mash of tourist trinkets, household goods, foods and spices. Blue glass evil eye trinkets are everywhere.  An arcade connects the market street and within the arcade are jewelry shops, antique shops, clothing shops and shops selling designer knock offs. This arcade opens onto a square and after a few minutes of indecision, we sit at a small table in the shade of an open square and order hot Turkish tea. There are no surprises here. 

The morning has passed quickly and it’s time to hike back to our hotel and prepare for our 3:00 P.M Turkish Bath at the Cagalogu Hamami. Art was unhappily surprised when I told him the price. It will be $150 each for a package of sweating in a 300 year old bath house, a loofa mitt scrub, a bubble massage and a dedicated foot massage. The back story for this is that I was in Istanbul in 1971 and went alone to a traditional Turkish bath house. It was a memorable experience that in 1971 probably cost just a few dollars. I still remember being awed by the marble interior with the translucent marble dome and the natural light streaming down. I was a backpacker with little money and washed myself at one of the 8 marble fluted shell fountains around the perimeter of the dome. I must have paid for a loofa sponge because I remember a large breasted woman in loose fitting white underwear, scrub my body and watching my exfoliated skin wash into the drainage trough and weeks of backpacking travel dirt disappear. 

The Cagalogu Hamami is recommended in the Rick Steve’s guidebook and I reserved our 3:00 P.M. experience from the United States. Art and I find the address off a busy street and we step through the ancient doorway and walk down a few steps and enter into the softly lighted reception room. Several elegantly dressed men check the appointment book, nod and direct us to a small waiting area with a dozen foreigners waiting. I look up and see the huge marble dome above with light streaming in from geometrical piercings in the marble. The guests speak in soft whispers and I overhear that one group has booked the same spa treatment that Art and I have. Another single traveler has booked the basic treatment for 90 Euros. The men’s and woman’s baths are strictly segregated. I ask if both sections are under similar ancient marble domes and we are told that the woman’s bath section is more beautiful than the men’s. A suited man steps into our waiting area and offers those of us waiting various add on spa treatments. Do we want our hands waxed or massaged? Perhaps a facial mud mask or a full body mud bath? Everyone waiting declines the moderately high pressure sales pitch and the man nods and departs. Soon, Art and two other men are called for their appointments and are guided through a small door to the right. Shortly thereafter, my name is called and I am grouped with two other younger women and we are escorted through a different door and into the women’s section. A beautiful marble fountain gurgles that is surrounded by a half dozen small tables and chairs and women sit wrapped head to toe in white Turkish towels sipping tea and nibbling on nuts and dried fruits. Around the perimeter of the space are perhaps 16 private changing rooms. They are dark polished wood each with a number and a large brass lock and key. Three attendants magically appear and April takes my hand and leads me to my changing room. She unlocks the door, hands me the large brass key and through universal sign language instructs me to disrobe and to put on the plastic wrapped disposable bikini underwear and to wrap myself in the oversize white Turkish Towel. A few minutes later, I timidly emerge shuffling in the disposable bath slippers. April magically appears and firmly takes my hand and leads me into another circular dome room slippery with steam and water. She deposits me in a small marble steam room with heated marble benches. I am not accustomed to steam rooms and fear that I will only survive a few minutes. The two other women in my group sit across from me and talk quietly. A lithe young woman enters and sits in a meditative position cross legged on a corner bench. Her palms are together and her fingers point to the ceiling. Geometric ceiling piercings in the marbled ceiling allow light to stream in. 15 minutes pass quickly and April appears again and takes my hand and leads me into the largest of the ancient dome rooms. There are 3 women lying on the center marble slab each in various stages of their treatments and each attended by their personal masseuse. Eight alcoves surround around the perimeter each with a small scalloped shell shaped fountain. April seats me carefully and she ladles warm water over my head and washes my hair. She begins to exfoliate my skin with a loofa mitten which feels heavenly. 15 minutes later she unfurls my large towel and wraps me modestly to lead me the few steps to the center slab. She has me lie down face down and thus begins my 30 minute bubble massage. I’m not sure the mechanics of the bubbles but I can feel them popping all over my body as she firmly massages me head to toe. The soapy bubbles also give a foamy cover of modesty which allows me to relax completely. She instructs me to turn over, not an easy task on the slippery marble slab but once face up, I can enjoy the architectural magnificence of this historical bath. The thick marble dome must be 18 feet across with concentric piercings of squares and then stars and then octagons and then the piercings repeat themselves. I can literally see the soft beams of light streaming down. As April massages my neck and shoulders, I can turn my head to one side and then the other. I see women covered with bubbles on our center slab and on the other side, women are having their hair washed and their bodies exfoliated in their private alcoves. This is the most magical pampering treatment I have ever experienced and I don’t want it to end. I feel that I have stepped into the 19th century painting; The Bath by Jean-Leon Gerome or that I am a Sultan’s grandmother. Thirty minutes later, April leads me back to my sea shell fountain alcove and pours buckets of warm water over my head and body rinsing off the soapy bubble until I am cleaner than I have ever been. She quickly unfurls my wet towel, cocoons me in a dry towel and again grasps my hand to lead me carefully from this slippery bath room into the first room where earlier I saw women sitting around a fluted fountain sipping tea and eating nuts and dried fruit. She puts me into my changing room, leaving the door open so I can have a view of the fountain and the concentric circle of flickering pillar candles. She indicated that I should recline me on the chaise inside my changing room. Another woman instantly appears with a tulip glass of tea and my individual plate of a trio of dried fruit, nuts and Turkish delight. I sit upright and nibble on the treats watching the candles flicker around the fountain. Had I visited with a friend, the two of us would have been ushered to one of the fountain side tables but as an introvert, I am very content in my own private space. I finish my tea and most of the sweets undisturbed and when my glass is empty, April materializes again and pulls a stool up to the end of my chaise and indicates that I am to recline again. I am still wrapped only in my towel and she expertly massages my first one foot and then the other. She firmly massages my both my feet and legs with oil.  I am in utter bliss. When the experience comes to an end, she closes the door to my changing chamber and I dress slowly. In the dim light, I see an unobtrusive sign suggesting a tip for your attendant. An envelope lies on the table and I tuck my tip inside. April has treated my body with respect, provided me modesty when possible and made certain that I didn’t slip and fall.  I slip outside my dressing room and April materializes again.  She smiles broadly when I hand her the sealed envelope, takes my hand and guides me carefully to the exit where Art is waiting for me. I am still floating on a magic carpet but Art tells me his experience was nothing like mine. Apparently the men’s section was not designed with a 300 year old marble dome with sunlight streaming down from geometric piercings and the ambient light of candlelight. His experience felt more like an overpriced car wash. 

It’s about 5:00 P.M. when we exit and we are hungry because the guidebook cautioned us not to drink or to eat a heavy meal before our bath treatment. We walk towards the water and find ourselves on a narrow touristy street lined with restaurants. We are regularly accosted by pushy waiters wanting us to sit and have a drink and told that their food and prices were the best. A television hangs over the street at one restaurant showing an Turkish oil wrestling competition. Art is very interested and talks to the waiter about the rules of the game. Although the waiter insists that we sit, we escape his clutches and continue to walk down to the plaza adjacent to the Blue Mosque. The early evening light casts everything in a golden glow and we sit on a bench and people watch on this Sunday night in Istanbul. 

After an hour of people watching in the plaza we are seriously in search of dinner. There seems to be no easy way to combine wine with food so I acquiesce and we sit at a busy corner cafe and have a meal that will rival our terrible airline dinner. Afterwards and on our way back to our hotel, we sit at a corner cafe-bar and each drink a glass of wine. We are exhausted by the time we navigate back up the steep cobble stone street and climb the many stairs to our hotel. We request a bag of ice to be sent to our room and I divide it between two smaller plastic bags and ice my knee and back. 

Monday, June 2nd – Our Tour Begins

We wake early and although breakfast is included in our hotel, Art wants to first walk to a real cafe.  Turkish coffee in Istanbul sounds appealing and mornings are my best time so we navigate downhill to a cafe. After adequate but not exceptional coffee we return to our hotel for another elaborate buffet breakfast with a view of the entire waterfront from the Golden Horn to the Bosphorus Straight. When we finish breakfast, it’s not even 9:00 A.M. and we don’t meet with our tour until 2:00 P.M. It’s only natural that we walk back into the old town to explore further. We pass the wholesale shops selling children’s clothing again and nod at the men who sit and smoke in doorways and to those hauling heavy loads of clothing on their backs. They bend low to gain purchase on the steep street. Art and I decide to visit the Archeological museum before we meet with our tour group. The $20 tickets are expensive and the collection is disappointing. We return to our hotel to rest before our 2:00 P.M. meeting with our tour group.

28 of us gather in a small room off the main dining room. Plates of cookies are on each table. Taylan, a mid 40’s Turkish man is our English speaking guide. Everyone is curious about who is on our group. Half the group is older, about Art’s and my age give or take a few years. There are a few younger couples who at first seem out of place and 4 single travelers in their late 40’s or early 50’s. At first I don’t think I will like our guide but we will grow fond of him and form bonds with many of those on the tour. During our meet and greet, we have a minute each to introduce ourselves and give the reason for choosing the Rick Steve’s Turkey tour. I am the only one who has traveled to Turkey before and some people gasp when I say I visited nearly 55 years ago as a backpacker with no money. This trip will make one couples trip their 8th and there are only a few Rick Steve virgins. This will be our second.  Many of the introductions are clever and we visit briefly before being dismissed to our rooms and instructed to meet at 5:00 P.M. for our walk and orientation of the old town. 

We meet in the lobby and Taylan distributes headset receivers to each of us so that he can broadcast information to our group as we walk. I remember enjoying this unobtrusive method of guiding on our eastern European and St Petersburg trip in 2019. We will not be following a waving flag like ducklings and he will not need to shout information over a crowd and disturb others. We are instructed to all pick ‘buddies’ that are not your spouse and our group will do buddy checks many times each day. It’s a great system and if applied will prevent any couple being left for shark bait off the coast of Australia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deep_Water_(2022_film)

This is my third walk into the old city today and my knee is feeling it every step. Our head set receivers allow us to spread out as long as we stay in radio range. As we walk Taylan explains a much of Istanbul’s history and the different districts that we are walking through. We wind down the cobble stone streets to the Topkaki Palace that served as the royal residence and the imperial Ottoman court for Ottoman sultans between 1460 A.D. to 1856 A.D.  We show our museum passes and pass through the Topkaki Palace turn style gate. The palace gardens are opulent and lush with many low residential buildings, pavilions, courtyards and fountains.  The blend of Islamic, Byzantine and Ottoman architecture is stunning. 

We begin our tour along the long corridors of the vast kitchens and storage rooms. The thick stone walls and high ceilings keep food cool. Between the hierarchy, guards, cooks and the royal residence, 3000 people needed to be fed daily. The logistics and complexity to keep the Palace supplied and to feed and house so many is remarkable. A few of the kitchen spaces display ancient metal cauldrons and skillets. There are dedicated rooms just to make sweets for the palace. We leave the utilitarian kitchen blocks and tour the gardens and royal residences. Scalloped archways frame ornate tiled rooms. Every surface is intricately embellished with geometric patterns and Islamic script. Some panels are gilded bronze or gold, seemingly cast but when I examine them more closely they are metallic painted and high fire tiles.

We wander through the many rooms of the palace; the most interesting section to me is to me being the Harem complex. Taylan explains that African Eunuchs were the guards for the Harem because any sexual discretion would be obvious and the blood line must be pure. We look up to admire the ornate decorations inside the concave domes and at the gilded grates separating the private rooms and courtyards belonging to the Harem. The thick walls and second story ventilation grills keep the interior hallways cool. Today, many of the buildings have been converted to museums and armories and our group is set loose on our own to choose what sections of the palace we want to visit. Art and I are most interested in the armory and the museum. As terrible as the weapons are, they are as finely wrought and as intricate as jewelry. I feel compassion and suffer with the young men who have worn these talismans of protection with a brave heart but I also think of the suffering artists, metal smiths and jewelers who were ordered to make these masterpieces under pressure, inhaling toxic fumes and in poor lighting. Armory museums are a rare look at the division of classes and the costs of war. We visit the museum to gasp at the opulence of the Topkaki Dagger. I view it from a new perspective. It is breathtaking and encrusted with emeralds and was the star of a 1964 heist movie that I will have to watch again. A series of shield shaped rings catch my jewelers eye. The structural shape of the rings is simple but not a design concept that I have see before. Each ring is embellished with enamel and a variety of gemstones. 

We walk from the Topkaki Palace to Hagia Sophia. I was awed by this mosque 50+ years ago but I was traveling alone without a guide and didn’t understand its significance. As we approach we see the  magnificent center dome that is surrounded by many smaller domes and multiple minarets reaching towards the heavens. Because it is a house of worship, no museum passes are necessary but proper attire is. Most of the women in our group have scarves but I do not. Several of the men are wearing shorts which is not acceptable. One of the women slips off her button shirt off and converts it to a head scarf and I quickly take my cashmere sweater off and manage to convert it to a head shawl. Allie (I will soon learn everyone’s name) is halted at the entrance and called on her improvised conversion because buttons are showing and a sleeve is hanging down. She manages to adjust and convince the attendant that no disrespect was intended. Art quickly adjusts my cashmere sweater/shawl and I enter without incident.

Hagia Sophia was build in 530 A.D. as an Orthodox Christian Church. When the Ottomans conquered Constantinople in 1453, Hagia Sophia was transformed into a Muslim mosque. It was later transformed into a secular museum and only recently it was converted back to a mosque. The Byzantine interior is magnificent. Many surfaces are encrusted with tiny mosaic tiles and geometric frescos cover the ceilings and walls. The central dome floats on a ring of windows that illuminates the vast interior. Chandeliers alit with rings of golden light bulbs hang symmetrically between the massive marble columns that support the dome. Art is especially struck by the historical significance and beauty of this iconic place of worship. The Deesis Mosiac of Jesus, John the Baptist and Mary is seriously damaged but Art glows as I take photos of him standing in this notable place of history. 

From Hagia Sophia we walk along late afternoon sunlit plazas with domes and minarets glowing in the magical light.

We follow our guide like obedient ducklings and with our unobtrusive single ear piece phones we walk down to the harbor for dinner. We only joined our tour 5 hours ago but it already feels (in a good way) that we have been on this tour for days and made friends. I am dubious about having dinner at any touristy waterfront restaurant but we are ushered into one of many and our group of 28 is seated at two long tables. I am ‘inland’ and on the far end but I still have a lovely view of the harbor. As an introvert this end position is ideal and means that I will have fewer people that I am obligated to talk with. Aside from Art there are 3 other men at our end and I relax into their conversations of navigation and history and am grateful that I don’t have to engage in the girl talk a few seats away. Art soon suggests that I change places so he can be more engaged with the men’s conversation of aviation and history and I am agreeable after my first glass of wine arrives. I join the women’s conversation and smile a lot but I am totally uninterested in whatever they are talking about and simply watch the harbor view and anticipate the arrival of our salted fish. We are served Turkish pita bread and uninspired meze dips of eggplant and hummus.

I nibble and attempt to converse and soon the salted fish ‘On Fire’ show is onstage. I usually hate this sort of fanfare but I am drawn into the stage worthy event and when my portion of white fish is served it is simple, tender and delicious and cooked without any oil. I eat every bite. The desert is unremarkable. We walk back along the waterfront quay enjoying the illuminated domes and minarets of the Blue Mosque against the night sky. The promenade is bustling with activity. We somehow manage the steep walk back to our hotel and we request another bag of ice to be delivered to our room. The ice comes quickly and I wish that the ice’s purpose was for nightcaps instead of icing my knee and back. I wonder what the bell hop imagines?

Tuesday, June 3rd, Istanbul

We enjoy another fabulous breakfast buffets but this time we sit with new friends from our tour. We meet in the lobby at 8:30 A.M. promptly, make our buddy checks and are on our way to visit the Blue Mosque. I still don’t have a scarf but there are scattered kiosks in the plaza and I pause for 30 seconds at one, choose a 300 Lire scarf in seconds and catch up with our group. I need fashion scarf tying lessons but there is no time for this so I simply knot my pink patterned polyester scarf under my chin and enter looking like an aging peasant. We remove our shoes and enter. 

There is reason for the Blue Mosque’s name. The walls are covered with blue tiles and the dome and arches painted with geometric patterns. Similarly to Hagia Sophia, the dome floats on a ring of windows and light streams down through many multi colored blue stained glass windows. A complex curlicue iron structure supports an odd mixture of chandelier lights. Visitors circulate around the perimeter and the center terracotta colored wall to wall carpet is for worshipers. Although monumental and beautiful, I don’t feel the awe or the magic that I felt yesterday at Hagia Sophia. We exit into a center courtyard, and have time on our own to enjoy the sunlight before rejoining our tour for our walk to the Grande Bazar. 

We walk quickly across a plaza with an Egyptian obelisk and onto cobblestone streets that begin to narrow. An ancient archway reads “Grande Bazar” and as I enter, I feel overwhelmed with the visual intensity of it all. I might as well be at the Tucson Gem and Mineral show. Each touristy glass window is packed full of antique jewelry or gold jewelry and the labyrinth of stalls in the covered market place sell everything from designer knock offs to leather goods and silk scarves. I have traveled to 60 countries and experienced similar markets in each. Although the streets are picturesque and ancient, I feel like I am in just another tourist trap. Taylan pauses at a cashmere shawl shop to allow our group time shop and as a meeting point after an hour of free time to explore the market. My back hurts and without asking, Art performs a sleight of hand and sets my telescoping stool against a center pillar. I sit and lean back in relief and watch others in our tour swarm the cashmere shawl shop. I have left my Adville back at the hotel and Art sets off on a mission to find a pharmacy in the maze of shops. (I think Art is grateful for a mission.) A man from the cashmere shawl shop appears quickly with an hour glass cup of tea set precariously on a saucer and I and accept it. I surmise that I am entitled to this courtesy as part of the Rick Steve’s tour and watch a few of our tour group choose and pay for their overpriced scarves. 

Our group takes the subway from the old city across to the new city and we pop up and out in a different universe. We walk as a group along Istiklal Street and Taylan points out the best ice cream shops, art galleries and eateries. After a few blocks we are set free for two hours to find lunch and shop. Naturally, the majority of our group follows Taylan to his suggested restaurant and it is good. It isn’t especially touristy or expensive. We sit with our new friends; Yu-lin and Paul and we individually point at a hot buffet to choose the dishes we want to order. I’m already finding the meat dishes tedious so I choose a vegetarian option; an artichoke heart and an eggplant dish, both of which are excellent. 

Art and I wander back slowly along the main shopping street. We pop into a strange multimedia art gallery and bookshop event space. We ride the elevator to each floor hoping to see something of substance but the exhibit is so uninspiring, I cannot put words to it. We share an ice cream cone on the way back to our groups appointed meeting spot. Turkish ice cream is made from goats milk and has a chewy texture. It is excellent and the difference is just slightly noticeable. I’m still trying to comprehend how ice cream itself can be chewy and I’m not referring to the nuts, chips or caramel that is sometimes mixed into certain flavors. 

My back is really hurting and Taylan offers Art and me a tram alternative instead of walking back across the Galata Bridge. This is a big mistake. He says meet at #51 and Art and I interpret this to be tram stop #51. He points us down into a subway rabbit hole with instructions to catch the tram across the river. It is running the wrong way so we scurry back down and then up again to try to find the platform going in the correct direction. We are hopelessly confused and end up hiking across the bridge after all and eventually boarding the tram to ride to stop #51. We know we are meeting at the spice bazar and Art and I have #51 cemented in our minds. We ride the tram anxiously watching for stop number #51 which doesn’t exist. We get off and cross to the old town plaza and Art tries to ask directions from bored police men and women. They look at us blankly. We know we can find our way back to the hotel alone but we are worried that our group is wasting time searching for us. Nearly an hour later, we see Taylan standing outside of the spice bazar and feel both grateful and foolish. Apparently the shops inside the Bazar have numbers and we were to meet at shop number 51. Lost in translation. I would have enjoyed having a guided tour through the maze of the bazar but we haven’t inconvenienced anyone except perhaps Talan and he covers his annoyance well. 

Finally back at our hotel, Art and I have a welcome few hours to rest. Dinner will be on our own. About 6:30 P.M. our stomachs urge us to leave the quiet of our room. Art and I do not do well choosing restaurants together. The restaurants are all several blocks away down the steep cobble stone streets and my back cringes at the thought of yet another round trip hike. I campaign to have dinner at our hotel restaurant, an unexciting and expensive option. Art acquiesces and we head to the rooftop only to see that many of our tour group have made a similar choice. We sit alone at a table for two and order a glass of wine each. I am aware that this will not be enough alcohol but Art is hesitant to order a bottle. We order badly. A carb laden creamy chicken pasta for Art and an equally bad carb laden entree for me. The sunset view is wonderful. We talk a bit with new friends sitting at the table across from us and I bravely order a bottle of wine from our waiter. I want to continue to sit and watch the sunset and I am reasonably sure that a second or third glass of wine will ease my social anxiety and enhance the sunset. It does the trick for both Art and me and we are soon happily chatting with Kathy, Tom and David. Kathy is beautiful and she and her husband Tom are two of the youngest members of our tour. I learn that she also went to a spa alone on the day before our tour began. We share spa experiences and her’s sounds as lovely as mine.

Unfortunately, she was targeted by a carpet sales man before she entered the spa. He apparently waited outside for hours until she exited and under the guise of giving her directions back to the hotel, he lured her into his carpet shop. Once there, she was expertly manipulated by 3 or 4 persuasive Turkish men and pressured into buying an expensive carpet. This was all news to Kathy’s husband Tom and all the time Art is gently kicking me under the table to drop the subject. We share some of our bottle of wine with Kathy and David, watch the sunset and head to bed. (By the following morning, Tom has called their credit card and managed to block the charge.)