A snug little city in northeastern Italy, Ravenna is not far from the Adriatic coast. In the age of Christ, Ravenna was, like Venice, a town built on pilings within a marsh. Julius Caesar massed his army there before setting out to cross the Rubicon.

CAPITAL OF THE WESTERN ROMAN EMPIRE

In 402 Roman Emperor Honorius proclaimed Ravenna, with its easy access to the sea, the capital of the Western Empire. In order to grow and better defend itself, the dominant branch of the Empire had moved east to Constantinople, now Istanbul. Honorius constructed civil and religious buildings in Ravenna, adorning the latter with mosaics. Honorius’ sister, Galla Placida, later took power there, defending Christianity from invading barbarians, and commissioning her own mosaic-laden mausoleum.

Mosaics are small pieces of stone and colored glass used to create artistic designs and representations. Byzantine mosaics were often gold in color, created by placing gold leaf under glass. Glass mosaics are the most brilliantly reflective of mosaics.

BYZANTINE MOSAICS IN THE GOTHIC AGE

In 476, Roman Emperor Romulus Augustulus was deposed by a non-Roman, Odoacer, who was then succeeded in 493 by Theodoric the Great. Odoacer and Theodoric belonged to the Sovereign of Ostrogoths. “The Goths,” from which the word, gothic derives,  referring to things German or Teutonic, and architecture not classically Greek or Roman.

The Goths ruled Italy from Ravenna. Theodoric promoted the Arian version of Christianity, in which Christ is believed to be separate and subordinate to God, but he cohabited peacefully with Catholics. He also maintained the mosaic tradition; I imagine Roman mosaic artisans, timidly approaching the new ruler, hoping to stay employed. Theodoric restored Emperor Trajan’s imperial Roman aqueduct, and built the following:

BYZANTINE MOSAICS IN THE AGE OF JUSTINIAN

In 539, the Byzantine (basically, Rome in the East) Emperor Justinian overthrew the Goths. Based in Constantinople, he designated Ravenna as capital of the Prefecture of Italy. Justinian decorated Ravenna as lavishly he did Constantinople, with temples of marble adorned with fabulous Byzantine mosaic panels. These panels bring to detail scenes of Christ’s life as well as Byzantine court life. Two splendid basilicas: St. Vitale and St. Apollonare in nearby Classe, were built during this period.

THE END OF BYZANTIUM

Byzantium could not hold. Impoverished by battles with Persians and the followers of newborn Islam, the empire overextended itself. Its farthest flung parts spun off first: in the 8^th century an Italian tribe, the Lombards, took over Ravenna. In 1453 Byzantine rule in Constantinople ended.

In its heyday Ravenna was subordinate to grand and glorious Constantinople. But Istanbul’s Byzantine mosaics were later plastered over, and not all have been restored. The mosaics of Ravenna remained gloriously intact. You can see them there today in basilicas, mausoleums, baptisteries, and chapels. The little subsidiary that stayed — it now outshines the main office.

For more on Byzantine mosaics, go to:

• https://www.ricksteves.com/watch-read-listen/read/articles/ravenna-italys-byzantium
• http://whc.unesco.org/en/list/788/gallery/

The post Byzantine Mosaics: The Gold That Stayed appeared first on Sue's Turkish Adventures.

“Greg, it’s been great talking to you, but I have to go,” I say into the telephone, glancing at my watch. It is just after 8 on a Sunday morning. Sankar and I often wake to a phone call from one of our adult children, for whom it is late night in Minnesota or New York. Today Greg is on the line, but he gets to talk only with me; Sankar is on a ten-day trip to South Africa and Dubai. And I’m in a hurry because I’m joining a tour of “Istanbul’s Seventh Hill” at 8:30 down on the Sea Road.

The conversation hasn’t been long enough for me to truly listen to Greg’s ideas and concerns, and I hang up feeling wistful. I could be more supportive if I wasn’t so far away.

Greg, 22, has been out of college for four months and he doesn’t have a job. He is sleeping on various friends’ couches in Manhattan, serving banquets and clerking in retail stores. We haven’t been overly concerned, feeling it is typical for a new graduate to flail a bit, particularly in the midst of The Great Recession. But when I think of him, struggling to gain traction in Manhattan, my heart goes out to him.

Greg and Angela visited us briefly in August and they got acquainted with Ümit. Now, as we drive around the city, he often asks if Greg has found a job yet. “No, nothing yet,” I always answer, and make a joke about couch surfing.

Finally one day, Ümit lets loose with a question it seems he has had for some time. It reveals how little he knows about the size of New York City and its distance from Minnesota—and what illustrious Americans he thinks Sandy and I are. “Don’t you and Sandy know anyone in New York?”

I’m pretty sure that my answer, an astonished, upwardly inflected “no,” is hard for Ümit to understand. A Turkish family would provide rent and a living allowance for unemployed offspring of any age.

Now, making sure I have my keys and camera, I leave the apartment building, closing the outer door carefully to avoid waking up ground-floor residents. Few Turks are out on the roads on Saturday and Sunday mornings, and I’m pretty sure my neighbors are also indulging in what seems to be a national preference for sleeping in.

Out of the compound, I turn right toward the edge of the hill that faces the Bosphorus and begin my descent. Past the mini-mart that sells homemade flatbread and where I’ve seen the male proprietors watching videotapes of Sex and The City. Thwack. My feet hit hard on the pavement that slants away from them, punctuating the negative thoughts I’m having. Why did Sankar bring me here to Turkey only to travel out of the country half the time? Thwack. Down the steep street lined with charming old houses. I have to introduce myself to a bus full of strangers today in order to have something to do. Thwack. Around the corner and onto the small road on which stray dogs occupy one side and cats occupy the other. I am far more alone here than I was back home. Thwack. Down the main street of Arnavutköy past the bakery, the kuruyemiş (dried fruits and nuts) shop, several kebab restaurants and a video store called The End. I can’t even help my kids because I’m too far away. Thwack.

Today will be my first trip with the American Research Institute in Turkey, (ARIT), the group that I signed up with at the IWI fair in September. The Seventh Hill trip is billed as “a unique tour of the Byzantine and Ottoman city, and some of its important but little-visited churches and mosques.”

I’m down at sea level now, on flat ground. I turn right and see a bus sitting a few blocks ahead. A knot of people, perhaps a dozen, are standing outside of it. They look to be my age or older and are conversing animatedly. Thoroughly in a bad mood, I slow down and actually consider turning around and walking back up the hill. But what will I do all day alone in the apartment? I move toward the group.

A middle-aged Turkish woman with a dark pageboy sees me and introduces herself as Tulin, one of the trip organizers.

“Hi — welcome! What is your name?”

I tell her and she puts an X by it on her list. Then, smiling, I stand on the edge of the group, finally introducing myself to one couple. The woman’s name is Heleny. She is a retired school superintendent from Virginia, here in Istanbul teaching at the Üsküdar School for Girls. Üsküdar, formerly Scutari, is where Florence Nightingale established a hospital during the Crimean War. Heleny’s husband, Bill, is a retired lawyer. “I cook, but I don’t clean,” he quips.

It is time to board the bus, and I climb on. A dozen others are already seated. My instinct is to take one of four or five empty pairs of seats, but then I notice another lone woman and something makes me turn away from my solitude and put myself out. I ask if the seat next to her is free, and she nods.

I sit down and we begin to talk. She is fortyish and pretty, with light brown shoulder-length hair and large doe eyes. Her name is Elif. She is Turkish but tells me she has just returned to Istanbul after twenty years in London. The reason? A divorce from her British husband. She tells me it feels strange after two decades to be in Turkey, that London feels like her real home. Well, another outsider.

Elif and I converse as the bus starts up and this distracts me from my sour mood. I feel some of my negativity draining away. Our guide stands up in the front of the bus, picks up a microphone, and addresses us. He is Haluk Çetinkaya, a bald, 40-ish professor of archaeology from Istanbul’s Mimar Sinan University. He announces that, within a mere five block area on the Seventh Hill, we are going to see a 16^th century mosque, a monastery complex that dates back to the 5^th century, a Christian church from the 13th century, and a former soldier’s barracks that closed in the 1800s.

The bus rumbles south along the Bosphorus toward the Old City and then turns and winds away from the familiar tourist sites. We navigate narrow roads for ten minutes or so, stopping and starting, and then disembark in a part of town I haven’t seen before. Mostly filled with nondescript twentieth century buildings, it is apparently the Seventh Hill, and encompasses a western section of the ancient walled city.

We troop off the bus and gather together. I edge toward Professor Çetinkaya so street noise doesn’t prevent me from hearing what he says. He points across a wide, busy street at three freestanding walls arranged in a convex quarter circle. They are made of red brick and gray stone, giving them a striped appearance. Two of the walls have large arched window openings from which vegetation protrudes, and partial roofs that slant toward the wall in the middle, which is lower, with a convex bulge on top.

They are all that is left of St. John Studion, a religious complex that was founded in 462 CE by a Roman priest named Studius. It came into prominence as a monastery at the beginning of the 9^th century, attracting Christianity’s premier calligraphers; composers of sacred hymns; and illuminators of manuscripts, some of which can be found in Venice and the Vatican City.

Functioning for a millennium up to and after the 1453 Muslim conquest, St John Studion inspired monasteries such as Mount Athos in Greece, but not long after the conquest, it became a mosque and the monks in residence were dismissed. Like human remains, this old church body is now merely a skeleton.

Mulling this tale of ephemerality, we are led down and across the street where Professor Çetinkaya points to a nineteenth century structure that looks like a hotel or apartment building. It is the former barracks of the Janissaries, the Ottoman Empire’s elite infantry troops. I have heard the word janissary before, but don’t know its significance.

The professor explains that the Janissaries were young boys recruited from Balkan Christian families starting in the 1500s and compelled (against the tenets of Islam), to convert. They received military as well as liberal arts training, and wore elaborate red and yellow uniforms and tall white tubular felt hats. Particularly talented recruits received a higher standard of education and became part of the Ottoman class of viziers (officials; the word is related to wizard) as well as engineers, architects, physicians, and scientists. Over its 300-year history, the Janissary system became hereditary and the Janissaries themselves gradually became corrupt and inclined to revolt. The system was abandoned in 1826.

The most illustrious Janissary of all designed the next building we are to visit, the Şehzade (sheh ZA day) or Prince’s Mosque. As we walk toward this magnificent structure, we learn about Mimar Sinan (Sinan, the architect), for whom Professor Çetinkaya’s university is named.

Mimar Sinan is considered the greatest of all Ottoman architects, comparable to Michelangelo, his contemporary in the West. He was conscripted from a Christian family, probably of Armenian or Greek origin, in 1512, and worked for Turkish sultans throughout the 1500s, producing the loveliest mosques in Istanbul, along with schools, mausoleums, palaces, mansions, and bridges. Istanbul is adorned with Mimar Sinan’s work.

Mimar Sinan built the Şehzade Mosque in 1543 for Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent, who presided over the Ottoman empire at its apex. The purpose? To commemorate the death of Suleiman’s 22-year-old eldest son, Prince Mehmet, from smallpox. Suleiman was apparently so heartbroken that he sat with his son’s body for three days before allowing it to be taken away and buried. How his subjects must have pitied their ruler, his power and prestige granting no reprieve from death. Even sultans must bow to the will of Allah.

The Sehzade Mosque’s exterior glows in various shades of pink and white marble. The professor points out its elaborately-carved arches, its inlayed minarets, and its ribbed and fretted domes.

To enter, we pass through an elaborately carved stone entrance into a courtyard that contains a domed marble “ablutions fountain,” where male worshippers wash their hands and feet before praying. None of us do any washing, but we remove our shoes before walking up and into the carpeted mosque itself.

Inside, other people are milling around and several men are kneeling in prayer, but this is not one of the five daily prayer times during which non-Muslims are excluded. The professor invites us to sit down on the lush, deep orange carpeting while he begins explaining the building’s interior. My first impression is of sunshine and curved edges. Light seems to stream in from everywhere: the stained glass windows as well as the full and semi-domes above them.

The carpet features rows of dark blue repeating patterns about three feet by two feet in size, that look like arched doorways. These indicate where each worshipper is to kneel and the direction he is to face. In essence, these are the pews, and they run in rows all the way to the edge of the sanctuary, with no “aisles” or other spaces. This horizontal orientation makes the room appear wider than it is deep, and enforces a kind of equality among male worshippers (women occupy a confined space in the back of the mosque.)

The central dome floats high above us, patterned in red, blue and black and bordered by burgundy and white stripes. Patterned half domes spring from the central dome, giving an impression of endlessness. This, I will learn, is a feature of all Sinan mosques.

Lowering our eyes, we see the mihrab, a stone niche indicating the direction of Mecca. Next to it is the mimbar, or pulpit, reached by a series of steps concealed by a curtain. The mimbar is capped by a fanciful turret painted in golds, blues and reds.

A black iron chandelier perhaps twenty feet in diameter hangs low in the middle of the sanctuary. Its swirl of curving lines and individual lights causes the mosque’s interior to sparkle. Arched colonnades extend around the building.

The Sehzade’s detailed, repeating patterns and inscriptions, and its layer-upon-layer surfaces give the building an air of eternal mystery that seems a perfect accompaniment to religious faith. Overall, my impression is of glory, not the severity I still expect in an Islamic structure.

Professor Çetinkaya brings us out of our reverie by reminding us that the Şehzade Mosque was built only ninety years after the Muslim takeover of Constantinople. He then says something that surprises me, and he repeats it: “They were the same people. They were the same people.”

What does he mean? He explains that a new population was not brought in to replace the Christians living in defeated Constantinople. After the Conquest, the same people remained, gradually—or rapidly—switching their allegiance to the faith of their conquerors. So if one were to trace the ancestry of the people currently living on this land, Christian heritage would be uncovered. And farther back, one would find that these “same people” worshipped Greek gods and goddesses, maintaining statues of Zeus and Athena in their backyards.

This information makes me think differently of Turks, and I realize I’ve assumed religious beliefs are implacable. Later I will read that the Christian Byzantines felt that their defeat was a sign that God no longer favored their belief system.

Leaving the mosque, we walk on an unkempt path toward the Kalenderhane Mosque, a cozy sixth century former Christian church built on the site of Roman baths. One regime replacing another. The church’s orientation is north-south, but when the Ottomans replaced the Byzantines and it was converted into a mosque, its focus had to turn toward Mecca. Its carpeting, patterned to help worshippers face Mecca, is installed at a dizzying diagonal.

We stop at a kebab place for lunch and I meet some of my tour companions. Peter and Elaine, long-time Istanbul residents, he from the U.K. and she South African. A retired professor of history named Will, also British. Tulin, who helped organize the trip. A thin, older Japanese gentleman who sits reading a book written in Russian and doesn’t meet anyone’s gaze. Doug and Jean, here on a posting with the State Depatment. Friendly and unpretentious people, studious people, some delightfully eccentric. People a lot like me and, I remind myself, these folks were also new to Istanbul once, and disoriented. How easy it is to forget that.

As we sip tulip glasses of tea after lunch, people ask me about our arrival and jobs here, and encourage me to join upcoming ARIT tours, designed to go deep into the country’s history. It feels great.

In the afternoon, we are taken to a seven-turreted section of Istanbul’s ancient land walls called Yedikule (yedi = seven; kule = castle) and a functioning Greek Orthodox Church, for some reason also called the Balikli Camii, or Fishy Mosque, which has an underground spring full of goldfish. But at this point, I have hit a wall and am finding it difficult to receive, let alone integrate any more information. But I’m not complaining. The day has been dazzling, providing completely new insights, none of which are in my guidebook. It has taken me completely away from my everyday concerns.

It is past 5 pm when we climb back on the bus. My legs ache and I am tired of listening. Funny how my empty apartment now seems like just the thing. But on the way back, the bus encounters heavy traffic on the narrow Sea Road, with no place to turn off. We sit only a mile and a half from our destination, but inching forward; we can do nothing but wait. This is Istanbul: narrow streets, lots of waterways, and serious traffic chokepoints.

Elif and I chat desultorily. Then a sixty-something woman in front of us turns around and introduces herself. Kate is attractive, with dark hair framing her face and large, dark eyes. She could pass as a Turk, but she tells us she is British, and she has an interesting story. Her parents worked for the British embassy and, growing up, she lived in several foreign countries, including the U.S. When she was in college in England, her parents were posted to Ankara, and on a visit to them one summer, she fell in love with a Turk. They married and have lived in Istanbul for forty years.

Kate tells Elif that for her, England feels strange, whereas Turkey is home. The two women’s stories are mirror images of each other. I ponder Elif’s current struggle and Kate’s long-ago adjustment to a Turkey much less modern than today.

The day has been filled with stories of dislocation and loss. A group of Byzantine scholars packing up for a long trip west, hoping perhaps Rome will take them in. The Janissaries, including Mimar Sinan, wrenched from their families and their religion. The magnificent Sultan, inconsolable over his young son’s death. A defeated city turning away from its faith. All of these dwarf my tiny current sufferings.

The entire city, it seems, is built on the concept of transplantation, the need to adapt and readapt to change. Perhaps all places are, but Istanbul seems more so, a crossroads for divergent peoples and the site of furious battles to establish religious supremacy. The day has given me a glimpse of the lessons this place might hold—as well as, surprisingly, my first, tiny sense of belonging.

The bus finally arrives, and I disembark, feeling weary but pleased. Spending the day around new people and beginning to learn about this complex city was just the tonic I needed. As I walk back up the hill, it occurs to me that perhaps as I learn to make my way here, Greg, displaced by choice, is also learning to navigate the polyglot port city he has chosen to live in.

And Sankar: well, now I have taken the lead: I can introduce him to some new people. Something drew me to that lonely ARIT table at the IWI fair in September, and it seems my instincts were sound. I know he’ll love the group’s focus on history and its welcoming members. I can’t wait to tell him about my day.

The post City of Loss appeared first on Sue's Turkish Adventures.

Now back in Minnesota, I wrote this article to serve as your homework :). If you’re visiting Turkey for the first time, you’re in the right place. Let me know if you’d like any other tips, and enjoy what follows!

Introduction

Is it possible to make sense of a country’s two thousand year history when you have only a few days and don’t speak the language? I think it is. Plan to visit Istanbul first. Then, as you branch out from this historic mecca, you will enjoy many other sites and landmarks. I will write about those in an upcoming post.

To help you make sense of places you’ll encounter in Istanbul and give you an edge on other tourists, I’ve organized this post into three categories. Each category represents a group of people or a person who shaped Turkey.

The three groups you should be excited to learn about include:

1. The Byzantines, folks who kept Christianity alive from 330 to 1453 CE.
2. The Ottomans, a group of tolerant Turks who spread their culture throughout the Middle East and Eastern Europe during the golden years of Islam.
3. Kemal Ataturk, a 20th century hero who fought off invading superpowers and put his proud stamp on the modern Turkish Republic.

The Best Byzantine Places to Visit

I don’t know about you, but I knew nothing about the Byzantines before I visited Turkey. It turns out they were early, devout Christians. They had caught the fever—and they put it into all of their art. And if you’ve ever attended church, you’ll understand what they were trying to tell us!

Stand in the Afternoon Sun in The Hagia Sophia

–Walk into the vast, ornate Hagia Sophia in the heart of Istanbul’s Old City. Built after Rome fell and the empire moved a thousand miles east, it was the largest church in the world for a millennium. That’s a thousand years, folks! Take in the vast exterior and the frescoes of Mary and angels. Climb a medieval ramp to the second floor and turn a corner to see a mosaic of Jesus so expressive you might burst into tears. Oh, and don’t miss the graffiti left by the Vikings.

“Read” the Bible on the Walls of St Savior of Chora Church

–Travel to the western edge of Istanbul’s Old City to visit the St. Savior of Chora church. There you’ll find familiar Bible stories—the turning of water into wine, Herod’s massacre of the innocents, Mary and Joseph’s flight to Bethlehem—expressed in mosaics. Yes, tiny little stones tell the tales – and they cover every inch of this incredible 11th century church.

Descend Into The Cisterns

–Walk down into the ghostly 6th century Basilica Cisterns, built to supply water to the Byzantines—and then for centuries, forgotten.

Walk Around Istanbul’s Ancient Land Walls

–Stroll along Istanbul’s Theodosian Walls, built in 413 CE, and consider what “state of the art defense” meant 1600 years ago. These two-layer structures were twelve meters high and two meters thick at their base, with 96 towers and, of course, a moat.

The Best Ottoman Places to Visit

Climb The Ramparts at Rumeli Hisari

–Imagine centuries of mismanagement that shrunk the Eastern Roman Empire down to one city: Constantinople. Head up the Bosphorus to Rumeli Hisari, a castle-like fortress built in a mere four months by Fatih Sultan Mehmet to prepare for his attack on Constantinople. (Imagine your own worst enemy setting up shop ten miles away, waiting for his chance to destroy you.) The Byzantines sent frantic letters to Europe begging for help, but little arrived. In Istanbul (formerly Constantinople), you’ll learn how the Ottomans outsmarted the Byzantines.

Enter the Battle at The Panorama Museum

–Put yourself right in the middle of Fatih Sultan Mehmet’s final, fatal siege at the Panorama Museum. An exciting book called Constantinople: The Last Conquest, by Roger Crowley, gives all the gory details. Then: re-visit the Walls to pinpoint their weak spots.

Marvel at Istanbul Military Museum

–Visit the Military Museum to touch the chain the Byzantines attached across the Golden Horn in an attempt to prevent Mehmet’s ships from entering and attacking where Constantinople was most vulnerable. Mehmet outsmarted the Byzantines. . . I’ll let you discover why on your own.

–Now consider re-visiting the Hagia Sophia to imagine it full of frightened citizens, praying to save the city as invaders break down the walls.

Fall in Love At The New Mosque

–Peer into the New Mosque (built in 1665) beside the Spice Bazaar and feel like you’re floating inside an enchanted cloud. Interested in more? Visit the grand hilltop Suleimaniye Mosque; the pink Mihrimah Mosque with its history of romantic longing; The Rustem Pasha Mosque, built in cooperation with business establishments next to the Spice Bazaar; and the tiny gemlike Sokullu Mehmet Pasha Mosque just off the Hippodrome.

Play Sultan at Topkapi Palace

–Walk through the Topkapi Saray, the palace of the pleasure-loving Ottoman Sultans. Gaze upon their ornate robes, walk through their harem, and imagine yourself brandishing imperial swords and entertaining guests in cushioned splendor.

Roam the Bazaars

— Shop like a sultan: Head to the The Spice Bazaar to buy pomegranate-flavored Turkish Delight, dried sweetmeats, and Iranian saffron. Walk through the 500-year-old Grand Bazaar, a mesmerizing array of over 4,000 shops.

The Best Ataturk Places to Visit

And finally, we come to the era of Ataturk, the father of Modern Turkey. This remarkable man fought off four invading countries at once—at one time, folks!—and then dragged a hidebound, superstitious country into modernity.

People-Watch on Istiklal Avenue

–Stroll glitzy, historic Istiklal Avenue and admire its architecture and exuberance. Istiklal is the word for independence, appropriate for the Ataturk’s Republic, admired throughout the Middle East.

Admire Photos of Ataturk’s Amazing Life

–Study the impressive black and white enlargements of Ataturk’s life that adorn the Sea Road on your way up to Rumeli Hisari.

Translate Turkish Words in a Dictionary

–Relish your ability to look up Turkish words thanks to Ataturk, who changed the Turkish alphabet from Arabic to Roman characters.

Lift a Cup of Boza

–Enjoy boza, a Turkish drink made from fermented bulgur, at Vefa Bozaci, a few blocks above the Suleimaniye mosque. Buy some roasted chickpeas across the street and add them to your cup as Turks do. Ataturk’s cup hangs on the wall for all to see.

Have a Conversation With Your Turkish Hosts

–Admire Turkish pride in the cleanliness and vigor of Istanbul, the patience Turks display in traffic, and above all, the warm hospitality granted to visitors.

Now that you’ve read this post, you can start devising your own plan to “conquer” Istanbul! You can do a minimalist tour in two days, but I’d recommend three or four. Let me know if you have any questions!

Note: Istanbul is a ten-hour direct flight from NY City. A ticket should cost you about $1,200.

The post The Best Places to Visit on Your First Time in Turkey (2015 Edition) appeared first on Sue's Turkish Adventures.

This is an excerpt from my upcoming memoir . . .

We were tired of spending every weekend in our apartment or close by, and we longed to establish some kind of connection with our new country. In early August, 2010, we decided to take a day trip to Iznik, formerly Nicea.

Iznik was the town I’d read about in Eyewitness Guide Turkey back in Minnesota. The guide had mentioned a Christian council held there that had produced the Nicene Creed, the statement of doctrine I had recited over and over as a churchgoing child. The town was just a few hours south of Istanbul, and it looked like an easy candidate for a day’s drive.

If Sankar and I had viewed this trip as a reality show challenge (“Amazing Race contestants: find a series of clues in the rat-filled, labyrinthine Karni Mata temple in India.” “Project Runway designers: create a couture gown out of materials found at a hardware store.”), we would have been more aware of its difficulties—and their inevitable effect on us. On paper, our challenge might have read: “Drive east out of Istanbul, following signs in Turkish to a scheduled ferry’s point of embarkation. After the ferry ride, locate a tiny, historic town and visit its most important museum. Then retrace your steps back to Istanbul.”

But we weren’t thinking “challenge.” We were thinking “fun trip outside the city.”

On the map, the route to Iznik was clear. We simply needed to drive east along the shore of the Sea of Marmara, and then, when we reached its edge, some 60 miles outside of Istanbul, peel away from the coastal superhighway for another 25 miles south.

But then the Turks weighed in. “Don’t go all the way by car. It’s out of the way. And there’s too much traffic,” Sankar’s colleagues told him. The map did show several highways converging at the east shore of Marmara, squeezed between the water and a set of foothills.

They suggested we take a ferry across Marmara, leaving from Pendik on the north side, and arriving at Yalova on the south side. It sounded interesting, but still, I thought, wouldn’t driving be simpler?

Sankar had his secretary, Didem, book ferry tickets for us and for our car. A boat ride in addition to a car trip. Well, it would probably be fun. As far as I knew, there were no car ferries in Minnesota.

This would not only be our first trip outside Istanbul, but our first real drive on our own. Because Umit always drove us (usually separately), the only places we had driven together were to the nearby Macro store for groceries, and twice to the Old City.

On Saturday morning we set off toward Pendik. We had noticed few people out on the roads on weekend mornings—perhaps Turks slept late—and today was no exception. In light traffic, we whizzed across the Second Bridge and continued east along the E-80 highway. The Turkish highway system is color-coded (green for superhighways and blue for lesser highways), numbered, and lettered, and highways often have several names. For example D-100 coming in from Bulgaria is blue, but becomes green E-84 near Istanbul. E-80, the major green highway through Istanbul, is also referred to as O-2 and O-4.

Umit, and then Sankar, had tried to explain the road system to me, but preoccupied as I was with Turkish vocabulary and simply finding my way around, I had triaged this information as too much, and discarded it. Temporarily, I thought.

The sun was shining as we flew past miles and miles of construction cranes; skyscrapers seemed to be going up everywhere. As Istanbul’s eastern sprawl thinned out, we began to look for a sign Sankar’s colleagues had told him about. It would be a picture of a boat and it, and companion signs, would lead us right to the point of embarkation.

Unfortunately, before we saw that sign, Sankar noticed an exit for “Pendik.” Afraid of making a mistake, he took it. We drove toward Pendik, but saw no boat icons. What had we done wrong? Now we began to worry, as the ferry was leaving in less than a half hour. We kept going straight and then saw a Öpet gas station. Sankar stopped and got out to ask directions. I am sure he used sign language and the word, nerede, where.

The proprietor, quickly surmising what two confused foreigners were doing in his provincial town, pointed the way to the boat. After just a few turns, we began to see signs with boat icons and astonishingly, the word, feribot, printed on them. Thank goodness Turks were organized—and a bigger thank you, Turks, for adopting a word from English! Before long we were turning toward the harbor and getting in line to drive onto the big, modern vessel.

Our inability to successfully navigate our gigantic new urban home weighed on both of us, but more heavily on me. Sankar was at least adept at performing his job duties. I often wandered around by myself, while he was ensconced in a now-familiar office, or being driven around another country by an English-speaking company employee (that had its own challenges, but usually didn’t involve getting lost). We were always operating under stress. Just the other day we’d been at Macro, trying to open multiple small plastic bags for our items on a tiny checkout counter while fumbling for our GarantiCard to pay for them. At some point we had set a bag on the floor beside us. Then, arms loaded we had left without it. We hadn’t missed the bag, containing wooden clothes hangars and cleaning supplies, until the next day. We knew we wouldn’t be able to explain to store personnel what had happened, so we resigned ourselves to their loss.

It was becoming clear to me that a large portion of my ego, a great deal of what made me proud as an adult, revolved around my ability to accomplish life’s tasks efficiently and effectively. In coming to Turkey without employment, I had fully anticipated a deflating loss of productivity, but surprisingly, more than anything else, I missed feeling confident in my own abilities. I missed setting out with a “to do” list and getting it all done on my own. I missed coming up with an idea—for example assembling the ingredients to bake a cake for Umit, whose birthday was coming up—and, on the spur of the moment, executing it.

I couldn’t remember feeling that loss so acutely during my other foreign assignments. Probably I’d been more humble in my twenties and thirties, less bothered about appearing the fool. I think something happens to us as we age; we believe more in ourselves, in our rightness. So perhaps I now had more to lose. And I’d always been conscious of how I appeared to others: a smiling confused young person is one thing. A smiling, confused 55-year-old is something else.

Lurking in the background was the realization that, even in my own country, my competence would be fleeting. In moments of pessimism, fortunately rare, I wondered whether my current bouts of forgetfulness were simply adjustment to a foreign country, or the beginning of some kind of mental decline.

The boat had three levels, two on top for seating and the lowest for cars and trucks. We parked the car, climbed to the second level, and sat down near the window on plush, upholstered seats.

I looked around at my fellow passengers, Turks of all ages: families, older couples, lots of children climbing over seat backs and walking hand in hand with adults. Lots of newspapers being read. Nearby, an extensive food counter presented itself: fresh cheese and salami sandwiches; various scone-looking rolls; an array of packaged almonds, pistachios and sunflower seeds; and tea bubbling in huge brass samovars.

It was only mid-morning, but my stomach was growling, so I got up and waited in line at the counter. When I reached the front, I pointed to a rectangular pan of flaky-looking pastry and asked, “Bu ne?” What is that? A silly question when the answer won’t be understood. Later I’d learn my eyes were good guides; this was börek, a savory breakfast pastry that would become one of my favorite Turkish dishes. I didn’t even know how to ask for it, so instead I pointed at a chocolate layer cake, asking for a slice. I also asked for two cups of tea (iki tane çay, literally two pieces of tea), which the clerk poured for me.

I gave her a pink and white ten Turkish lira bill and waited for my change. Several people came up to the counter at that point, however, and she began helping them. I stood waiting and feeling conspicuous, people lining up behind me, until finally I decided that perhaps I wasn’t going to get anything back. It was less than a dollar after all. I turned to leave, but as I did, the man standing directly behind me tapped my shoulder, motioning for me to wait, and then shouted at the clerk in Turkish, “You give her back her change!”

It was a perfect example of understanding language in context: the man’s words were as clear to me as if he had spoken them in English. I took the coins the clerk hurried to offer—she had simply been distracted, not trying to cheat me, I felt—and left feeling both conspicuous and comforted: I was being watched and watched over here in Turkey.

Sankar and I gazed out the window as we shared our cake. The Marmara was pale blue, its surface calm and misty. Big and little ships—oil tankers, container ships, smaller fishing vessels—were stopped at intervals, seeming to hang on the surface. They were, we later learned, waiting for clearance to pass through the Bosphorus.

Looking south, away from Istanbul, we couldn’t see any land at all: we were on a real sea, albeit one I hadn’t heard of six months before. Back in Istanbul, I looked up the Marmara’s surface area and doing some Midwestern comparisons, discovered that it is smaller than any of the Great Lakes, but nearly three times larger than Lake of the Woods.

In less than an hour we reached Yalova: modern, four and five story white buildings with red roofs, and a sunny, almost tropical ambience. As the boat approached the port, passengers left their seats to head down to the parking level, and we followed them. Unfolding our borrowed map, we reviewed the route and then slowly drove off the boat and turned south toward Lake Iznik.

On the map, Iznik Gölu looks like a tiny, oblong spawn of Marmara, but the real thing is impressively large. Later I learned it is about forty kilometers long and ten kilometers wide, about the size of Leech Lake in northern Minnesota. Its water was dark blue, and its surface ruffled by wind. Mountains rimmed its southern shore. We drove past olive groves in neat diagonal rows, their silvery leaves shimmering. Aside from olives, there was little development: none of the homes or summer cabins a big lake back home would attract.

After about a half hour, we begin to see the pastel-colored, boxy buildings of modern Iznik (population 15,000) ahead of us, curving around the eastern shore of the lake. Iznik would later become our touchpoint town, a miniature place we would come to know and navigate successfully. But now, concerned about not missing any turns, we failed to notice its fine scenery: the enchanting reeds and colorful fishing boats alongside the lake, and the steep, scenic ridges east of town.

I’d read that Iznik was founded in the fourth century BCE, and later fortified on three sides by a Roman wall. The Christian church had held seven councils across the centuries, all attempts to codify and standardize the new religion. The last of the Councils, in 787 AD, was held at Iznik’s Hagia Sofia church, not to be confused with the vast, world-famous Hagia Sofia in Istanbul. The name (Hagio, holy and Sophos, wisdom) means Church of Holy Wisdom, and was a common one for churches in Byzantine times.

We entered Iznik through an arched gate in the Roman wall. One side of the arch was supported with modern cement blocks, but the other side had small, rough reddish-brown bricks that looked original. A few blocks later we were in the center of town, and we parked and got out of the car.
Mission accomplished, but now a new one: which of the old buildings in the streets surrounding us was the Hagia Sofia? We peered into a building on the main road that turned out to be an old mosque, and then a domed structure a few blocks south that was a Roman-turned-Turkish bath (later we would recognize baths simply by their domes, constructed so moisture could trickle down walls instead of dripping on bathers.)

A shop proprietor near the baths pointed us back toward the old church, a gray and reddish striped building on the main street. There were those earthquake-cushioning Byzantine stripes again.

The church building was squat and low, its brick and mortar surface rough with age. It had arched windows and a newly tiled red roof, and looked to be about one and a half stories high. There was no steeple, only several small cupolas poking through the roof like overturned fluted cups. On the south side stood a thick minaret about twice the height of the church. This was because it had been converted into a mosque after the Ottoman conquest, which had come to Nicea in 1331. The mosque had later fallen into disuse, and in the twentieth century the building had been turned into a museum.

The church seemed to have sunk, but this was likely due to centuries of sedimentation. To reach the door we walked down a half-flight of steps. We paid the seven Turkish Lira (about $4) entrance fee and entered. Inside was an elementary school gymnasium-sized room, with an earthy odor. The floor was covered with coarse gravel that had been swept away in several places to reveal faded Roman mosaic panels.

The young man who’d taken our money accompanied us around the building, enthusiastically pointing out features of the church. We nodded and I listened intently, willing myself to understand his Turkish. There were faded frescoes high up in a cupola near what we presumed had been the altar; stone risers in the spot where the council dignitaries had gathered (I understood his word, toplanta, meeting); and a niche along the south wall that looked like it had once held a grave.

On the north side of the building, we peered down through a protective glass pane over a window well. There in the dim light was a faded fresco believed to be from the 11th century. It featured the Deisis: Christ Pantocrator, the Virgin Mary, and John the Baptist. Jesus looked different from the image I’d grown up with. Painted in hues of gold, brown and blue, surprisingly rich after all the centuries, he had wild, dark hair and large expressive brown eyes. In his left hand was a gilded book. His right hand was extended upward, and on his face was a look of surprise.

It was one of those unexpected moments that draws together disparate emotions. Standing on the damp gravel, I thought back to the red hymnal I’d held open to The Nicene Creed as a child. I had never wondered about the creed’s history, but here I was in its faraway Muslim place of origin. I thought of our struggles to adapt to a complex foreign city, our longing for friends and family, and how in the last months I hadn’t even considered my faith.

So close to the land of his birth yet so far away in time, this expressive Jesus seemed to peer up at me through all the centuries. A constant in my otherwise upside down world. I found myself blinking back tears.

We emerged from the church in the noon light, and stopped for a moment, gathering ourselves. There were a few other things we wanted to see in Iznik. Insight Guides Turkey had portrayed vivid turquoise, red and royal blue patterned plates, vases, and urns, and stated that Iznik had, for several hundred years, been the center of Ottoman tile production. Just a few blocks east of the church, we saw a hand-lettered sign that read “Pottery Factories of 15th – 17th Century Ottoman Turkish Ceramics.” Behind a fence were several square brick structures, apparently centuries-old kilns being excavated.

Shops lining the streets sold modern replicas of these ceramics, and we bought some small framed tiles from a friendly, English-speaking artist. We completely missed the town’s fine ceramics museum, but would see it on subsequent visits.

Lunch was on the terrace of Kofteci Yusuf restaurant on the main street: a tasty platter of grilled meats and peppers, homemade flat bread and piquant salad.

Then, with over an hour until we needed to start back, we headed toward a small Roman amphitheater that was being excavated on the south side of town. No one else was around as we retraced its original curves, partially hidden by weeds, and crouched down to examine fragments of marble capitals, their carving still distinct after two millennia. Then we sat quietly for a few minutes, trying to conjure a performance.

After that we got in the car and drove toward a section of Iznik’s Roman walls, turning to follow them around the south side of town. Unfortunately, the road quickly deteriorated and we found ourselves in the middle of someone’s olive grove. Reversing, we nearly became mired in construction sand around the southern gate.

Finally, before heading back, we stopped and strolled along the park-like lakefront. No complexity here, simply a sparkling, limited expanse of water with a familiar, damp, fishy scent.

Reality program viewers know that, as time wears on, contestants become stressed and are increasingly likely to lash out at each other. The show gets more interesting. Sightseeing over, we still had the challenge of making the 3:30 ferry in Yalova and navigating back to Istanbul, admittedly not a difficult target to hit.

Getting to the ferry was no problem. Back through olive groves and into Yalova, passing a slew of feribot signs. A late afternoon boat ride, the sun slanting on the sea. Driving off the ferry, however, we were faced with an immediate choice: Green or blue road? Wishing to take the superhighway, Sankar headed in what he thought was the green direction, but the signs came too quickly and we ended up in downtown Pendik, surely blue territory.

The town had a strange feel that I would learn was typical of Turkish small towns. Apparently, land was at a premium, so the downtown area was built up with five- and six-storey buildings, residents packed into modern apartment blocks. For the better part of a mile, I got the feeling of being in an important metropolis, even as plowed fields peeked from behind the buildings.
As we drove through Pendik, we argued about how to get back onto the green road. I suggested what I thought was promising-looking turn, but Sankar did not react at all; he merely kept going. At once I felt anger rising, and then I snapped. “Why don’t you ever listen to me?”

“I am listening.”

“No. You didn’t even hear what I said.”

“I didn’t think it was the right turn.”

“Well then why didn’t you say so?” The car filled with acrimony.

What had happened? The day had been a success: we had accomplished what we’d intended to, and enjoyed the sights. But now our enjoyment, interwoven as it was with strss, was stripped away. And, after the initial rush of righteousness, I felt bereft. Sankar was the only person I knew on this side of the world, aside from employee Umit, and now we were furious with each other.

I remembered my parents bickering over directions on our family’s long-ago car trips. Pretty typical, but they weren’t alone in foreign territory. We couldn’t throw careless words at each other like we (and others) did back home because we had no one else to fall back on. Here our comfort and refuge had to be each other.

I had merely wanted someone to acknowledge my idea. But Sankar’s goal had been different. He had wanted, unrealistically, heroically, to avoid mistakes, to avoid getting lost and wasting time. He typically ignored that which he couldn’t quite trust, not realizing its effect on me. I realized I had brought something with me on the trip: an epic sense of grievance over my new feelings of unimportance.

Funny that in order to travel, in order to open up your world, you must first shrink it down. Down to just yourself or the one or two people you travel with. Down in size, to a tiny, combustible space.

We rode the rest of the way together in silence, the unwanted blue road nevertheless leading faithfully back to the city. Fortunately, one can only head west into Istanbul so far until one runs into the Bosphorus. Kind of like running into the truth.

We ended up near the First Bridge instead of the Second Bridge. Our poor sense of direction and marital discord would have cost us major points had we been competing against another team. But we did know how to cross the bridge and get home.

The post Our Turkish Guidebook Inspires a Road Trip appeared first on Sue's Turkish Adventures.

Non-sidebar sidenote: I’m one of those people who’s sure she won’t like something (like, olives) until she’s locked in a dark prison cell and forced to try it. Then she raves about it on Twitter.

Sandy’s employer had moved us before: to Costa Rica back in the 1990s. Our children became soccer stars, and we all picked up Spanish. But Turkey? It was a country I knew little about. A Muslim country in Asia Minor, one with an obscure and most likely difficult language.

But the move was good for Sandy’s career, so I agreed to give it a try.

Our childhoods began there

I began gathering information. A friend gave me a book called Eyewitness Travel Turkey.  When I got around to opening it, I was surprised to discover some familiar names. Aladdin. King Midas. St Nicholas. Topkapi.

You remember that story of greedy King Midas, right? The jerk touched everything including his wife and it all became gold.

One page contained photos of eye-catching pottery. The text described a town that “first reached prominence in AD 325, when it was known as Nicea.” It went on to say that a council was held there, producing “a statement of doctrine on the nature of Christ in relation to God.”

Hmm. A council in a place called Nicea?

Could this be related to the Nicene Creed I’d recited on communion Sundays throughout my obnoxiously Lutheran childhood?

 I believe in one God the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth, and of all things visible and invisible. And in one Lord Jesus Christ, the only-begotten Son of God, begotten of the Father before all worlds. Begotten, not made. Being of one substance with the Father . . . And I believe in the Holy Ghost, the Lord and Giver of Life; who proceeds from the Father and the Son. . .

How do I remember that better than what I did last weekend?

I had never studied Turkish history, but this improbable link between my childhood and an ancient conclave in Asia Minor spurred me to read further. Whenever I had time, I pulled out Eyewitness Travel Turkey. I read about Roman baths and cisterns, a “Tulip” Mosque, and an archaeological museum with “one of the world’s richest collections of classical artifacts.” I picked up the lyrical Turkish Reflections by Mary Lee Settle; Crescent and Star, Stephen Kinzer’s analysis of current events in Turkey; and Birds Without Wings, a novel about an early 20^th-century Anatolian village.

All were rewarding to read. I no longer felt a sense of loss when I thought of our upcoming move.

It’s not really a Muslim county

Okay, so it is Muslim. Let me explain.

In mid-2010, Sandy and I moved to Istanbul. The first thing we learned is that Turkey does not fit Western preconceptions of your average Muslim land. Back in 1923, a guy named Ataturk, the Republic’s first Prime Minister, set out to modernize Turkey, and he was good at it. Among other things I’m forgetting, this included transforming it into a secular state. He abolished the Islamic caliphate, banned the fez, and discouraged women from wearing the traditional headscarf that disguised beauty. Ataturk turned Istanbul’s magnificent Hagia Sophia, which had been a church for nearly a millennium but was then functioning as a mosque, into a museum.

He made a mosque into a museum. That’s like inviting people to the White House, or something.

It’s got style oh yes it does

On the streets of Istanbul we saw both men and women wearing the latest in styles. Numerous chic bars and restaurants beckoned. The Turks we met had a decidedly casual attitude toward their Muslim heritage.

Western or not, Istanbul’s size and its bewildering maze of winding, traffic-filled streets were challenging. Think of New York City down below the numbered streets. Sandy and I often got so lost we were vulnerable to the sales pitches of local vendors.

Thank God the local vendors were good people.

Although we encountered friendliness and hospitality everywhere, we struggled with homesickness and the constant tension of having to express ourselves in a new language.

Travel isn’t a big deal

And day trips are dime a dozen.

Eager to expand on the very first connection I had made with Turkey, we began planning a trip to Nicea, now known as Iznik. The town lay about three hours south, and on a Saturday morning in July we found ourselves driving onto a ferry that would take us and our car across the Sea of Marmara, completing the first leg of the trip.

After the ferry docked, we drove east along a large lake also named Iznik, passing miles of olive groves.

Soon we began to see the town ahead of us, its low pastel-colored buildings hugging the eastern shore of the lake.

Between the fourth and eight centuries AD, not one, but seven councils were held in Turkey to help create Christianity. I hadn’t realized my religion needed to be put in order. Hadn’t it enjoyed a golden period in which there was no dissension? Hadn’t God’s words flowed clearly from Christ Himself?  It sounded as if public relations—message management—had been needed almost immediately.

So here’s one big finding from this council:

Several hundred dignitaries had attended the first council, held in 325 AD. They included the bishop of Myra, whose life became the inspiration for St. Nicholas; the patriarchs of Egypt, Antioch and Jerusalem; and John, the bishop of Persia and India. The meeting was full of controversy, the dispute being this: If Christ was born of Mary, then He must have come into being at a specific time and place. But doctrine states that Christ has always existed.

How to reconcile this? One way, the council determined, was to define Christ as having two natures, human and divine.

Ahh, two natures. I’ll take ice cream and napping.

Not all attendees accepted this theological sleight of hand, but the majority hammered out what we call the Nicene Creed, with its (heretofore mysterious) lines: Begotten not made. Being of one substance with the Father.

100 years since 4th grade, still not understanding that line.

You can freely roam Roman ruins

Lol.

We drove into Iznik through an opening in an ancient Roman wall.  In the town center lay the church where the creed was written, a squat building whose alternate layers of brick and stone, a Byzantine effort to cushion against earthquakes, gave it a striped appearance.

Called the Hagia Sofia, but not to be confused with the vastly bigger and grander Hagia Sofia in Istanbul, the 1700-year-old structure had no steeple, just several small cupolas poking above the roof like overturned, fluted cups.

On its south side stood a minaret. This was installed when it became a mosque after the 1331 Ottoman conquest. The mosque later fell into disuse. After World War I, the building had, just like its eponymous big sister in Istanbul, been made a museum.

The Muslim conquest of the land mass now know as Turkey occurred over four whole centuries, culminating in the fall of Constantinople in 1453.  In the various tours I’ve taken within Turkey, my guides have emphasized that, “it was the same people.”

It was the same people?

That is, when one religious group conquered another, new citizens weren’t hauled in to replace the old. Rather, the same inhabitants remained in place. Immediately or over time, most people got with the program and altered their beliefs.

To enter Iznik’s Hagia Sofia museum we walked down a half-flight of steps and paid seven Turkish Lira (about $3). The building, about the size of an elementary school gymnasium, had an earthy odor and its floor was covered with coarse gravel.

Near the entrance, the gravel had been swept away to reveal several faded mosaic panels.

A guide accompanied us, pointing out features of the church. We gazed at faint frescoes high in a cupola near the altar, walked around the spot where the dignitaries had gathered so many centuries ago, and viewed an area along the south wall that had once held a grave.

You can find Jesus

If you’re one of those too-cool-for-the-tour-I’ll-just-wander people like me.

On the north side of the building, we peered down through a protective glass pane over a window well. There in the dim light was a triptych that, according to an adjacent plaque, dated from the 11^th century.

This triptych featured three faces:  Jesus, the Virgin Mary, and John the Baptist.

In the fresco Jesus appeared wild and elemental, vastly different from the placid blond image I’d grown up with.

Painted in elegant golds, browns and blues still rich after ten centuries, he had thick, dark hair, huge expressive eyes that could grab you across a room, and a surprised-looking smile. In his left hand was a gilded book, and his right hand extended upward, proudly.

Was this Jesus? Yes.

It was one of those moments that unexpectedly gather together disparate emotions.  Standing in the damp little church, I thought back to my Midwestern childhood Sundays and their improbable link with this ancient, faraway church.

I thought of our current struggles to adapt to a foreign language and country, and our longing for friends and family. This primitive, animated Jesus, so close to his land of birth and neither airbrushed nor Anglicized, seemed to peer straight at me through all the centuries, saying. “Lo, I am with you always.” It reminded me of the more tender parts of my belief system, half-submerged just like the fresco.

I stood there holding back tears.

The new hobbies just keep on starting up

Knitting, Breaking Bad, and definitely cats. But way more.

Thereafter, historical sightseeing, much of it religious, became the focus of our stay in Turkey. A few months later, Turkish Muslim friends drove us up to St. Peter’s Grotto, set in the desolate cliffs outside Antioch. Gökhan and Burcu stood solemnly while we peered into the dim cave rooms of one of the first Christian churches. A year after that, we attended mass in the southeastern town of Mardin. In a country that discourages the use of languages other than Turkish, the pastor recited the gospel in Aramaic. We also visited the prophet Abraham’s birthplace, commemorated with a spectacular old reflecting pool surrounded by arched colonnades.

I was struck by how tenderly Muslims revered Christian sites, landscaping a large area around the tiny Ephesus house believed to be that of Mother Mary; answering visitor questions at St Peter’s Grotto; and even joining us on a two-hour climb to Sumela, an ancient Black Sea monastery.

Maybe Turkish Muslims were tolerant of Christianity because it was part of their heritage.

Your husband will start reading

“Listen to this!” Sandy exclaimed one February evening as he read the expatriate International Herald Tribune.

“The Church That Politics Turned Into a Mosque,” proclaimed the headline.

Due to actions in Ankara, the article said, Iznik’s Hagia Sofia museum had recently been converted back into a mosque.

No longer a museum? We stared at each other in disbelief.

What about all the Christian visitors who revered it and came to visit it each year? Sandy read parts of the article aloud, but I couldn’t fully absorb what he was saying, and grabbed the paper as soon as he finished. The museum had apparently closed in October, 2011. After modifications, a month later, it had reopened as a mosque.

Did this mean that people interested in Christian history were no longer welcome in Iznik? It seemed like our Turkish hosts were withdrawing the welcome mat.

And what had led up to this?

As I struggled to comprehend, it was the historical loss I mourned, not the loss of a church, which had, after all, occurred almost eight hundred years ago. I understood that the structure had been a mosque only decades ago, and I wanted to be fair, but I couldn’t help thinking that the building was more important to Christian history than to Islam. And then there were also our proprietary, not-so-rational feelings.

We had visited Iznik—our Iznik—three times now, even bringing our struggling-to-be-adult children.

It turns out that the story of Turkish secularization is complicated and fraught. For decades, the country’s more religious population has felt marginalized, not just philosophically, but also economically. According to Mustafa Akyol, columnist for Turkey’s Daily Hurriyet, for decades the Turkish Republic excluded devout Muslims from jobs, government contracts, and educational opportunities.

Mary Lee Settle wrote simply that, “Ataturk went too far with religion.”

Starting in the 1980s, however, the Turkish electorate began to choose Prime Ministers of a “mildly Islamic” bent. To everyone’s surprise, these periods of rule, including the current one, beleaguered as I write this, have been associated with economic growth. But as with any group newly flexing its political muscles, there has been overreach and payback.  This was probably what we were seeing in the Iznik decision.

Cultural struggles become close, relevant to you

In the past few years, Iznik had attracted as many as forty thousand tourists annually, the vast majority coming to see the museum.

After the  decision, Eurasianet reported that Iznik’s Hagia Sofia mosque was half-empty even after Turkey’s biggest Muslim holiday. The Herald Tribune polled Iznik residents, all Muslims, and quoted those who weren’t happy about the decision.

“We had just begun to make a few pennies from tourism,” a taxi driver lamented.

“We had nothing to do with the decision. We weren’t even asked,” a deputy mayor complained.

Another person said simply, “Historical sites should be kept as museums.”

I wondered what had happened to the fresco of Jesus.

We were expecting visitors from home and had touted Iznik as a highlight. Now we wondered if we should even go there. Mosques are carpeted wall to wall, CARPETED WALL TO WALL, people, and thus the Jesus fresco, located beneath floor level, would probably no longer be visible. And even if it were, how would I—or any tourist—walk in and begin searching for a representation of Christianity?

With over two thousand mosques in Istanbul, many of them distinguished and exceptionally beautiful, there would be no reason to drive three hours to visit a slapped-together mosque with modern fixtures, however ancient its outer shell.

When we wrote to our friends, however, they seemed open to a visit, remarking that Iznik seemed to have everything: “Christianity, Islam, capitalism, and politics.” I had to agree.

A romantic ending? (please read my conclusion)

So, we decided to return to the mosque. My husband secretly wanted the local lamb burritos and I wanted my Jesus.

Our visitors arrived in March and the four of us set out for Iznik on a splendid early spring day.

Snowmelt filled the creeks and tiny buds dotted the trees. At the entrance to the museum-turned-mosque, I was pleased to see the same guide as before. As mosque entry is always free, he no longer sold tickets, but welcomed us and again joined us in walking around the building.

An eighteen-inch-high brightly carpeted platform now extended from the south wall of the building. Carved into that wall was a mihrab, a niche indicating the direction of Mecca; and alongside it was a mimbar or pulpit, for the Friday speaker. A father and his young son were taking off their shoes in preparation for prayer.

But unlike other mosques, the carpeted area did not stretch to the other walls. Astonishingly, around the north, east and west edges of the building, a fifteen-foot perimeter of coarse gravel remained. And that was where all the items of Christian interest lay. The entryway mosaic. The east side with its cupola frescos, altar and little grave room.

And the window well, with the Jesus fresco.

We were standing in a functioning mosque that was also a museum of Christian history.

How had this come to pass?

Had hospitality toward those of us Muslims call People of the Book prevailed? Or had the decision been driven by business practicalities, a determination to follow the letter, but not the spirit of the Ankara ruling?

I would never know.

And so, for the second time, I was moved to tears in the Iznik’s Hagia Sofia.

This time it wasn’t an artist’s brushstrokes, but an abstract idea: that of religious tolerance. Spread out before us in gravel and carpeting.

Wiping a tear, I glanced over at Jesus, now facing the newly constructed worship area. His astonished expression now matched ours. But it was a good kind of surprise.

The kind that occurs only in the presence of a miracle.

p.s. I actually don’t have a Twitter, yet.

p.p.s. I started a WordPress blog to enter the Long Reads discussion. So thanks for reading, and let’s discuss! And thanks to my son for helping with the editing.

Sources:

1. Biblical Turkey: A Guide to the Jewish and Christian Sites of Asia Minor, Mark Wilson, Ege Yayinlari,2010.

2. The Church That Politics Turned into a Mosque, Susanne Gusten, New York Times, February 8, 2012.

The post I Met Jesus in a Museum & Other Reasons Everyone is Visiting Turkey appeared first on Sue's Turkish Adventures.

A small town alongside a long, deep lake. Mountains around the lake, a Roman wall around the town. An ancient amphitheater rises from a field of rubble, a brick Byzantine church crouches in the center of town (the Nicene Creed was written here), and 16th century kilns recall the Ottoman era.

This is Iznik, formerly Nicea. For me, the best town in Turkey.

I grew up near lakes, some small, others so big their bays were lake-sized, and I love them. I love shorelines that curve out and away from me and then turn and meet in the middle. I relish piney lakeside smells and the pungent fish and weeds at water’s edge. I enjoy calmness and serenity, the natural state of most lakes.

I did not grow up near mountains, but gazed reverently at them in pictures and on vacation trips. Their crevasses seemed to hold stories of times passed, and they filled me with longing.

Expatriates long for connection. Without knowing quite why, I fell in love with Iznik. Later I realized it had to do with childhood memories and longings.

Other cultures, other desires. Turks don’t consider Iznik remarkable. A few simple hotels line the lakeside promenade but the town has no tourist cabins, few summer homes, no pleasure boats. You see, Turkey has five thousand miles of seashore. Aegean beaches and Mediterranean beaches and even Black Sea beaches. To people from a sizeable mountainous country, seascapes have long been exhilarating.

But still, if you plopped Iznik down in my part of the world, it would be a major attraction.

The post The Best Town in Turkey appeared first on Sue's Turkish Adventures.

Why do pictures made up of hundreds of separate pieces appear to us humans as whole and cohesive? It turns out that our brains are wired to perceive objects in their entirety before identifying individual parts. This is a phenomenon known as Gestalt.

Perhaps the first artists to make use of Gestalt were those who worked with mosaics, colored bits of stone fixed into mortar. The concept is improbable because stones are among the most mundane of materials. Yet artists have used them successfully as far back as 400 BCE.

Affluent Greeks, and later Romans, laid mosaics on the floors of their dwellings just as we place decorative rugs. Some were simply decorative designs, but others served a storytelling function, depicting scenes from the lives of important gods and goddesses.

Byzantines had a different goal for mosaics. They used them to adorn the walls and ceilings of churches–and to remind congregants of their faithful forbears. In addition to stones, Byzantine mosaic artists incorporated pieces of glass with reflective silver and gold leaf backing.

As Turkey was the home to both Byzantine and Roman cultures, this country is a treasure trove of mosaic art.In 1999, Turkey was preparing to construct a large dam across the Euphrates River in southeastern Turkey. As engineers began their work, however, they uncovered ruins of a 2nd century CE Roman city.

The city was called Zeugma. Located at the eastern edge of the Roman Empire, it had an estimated 70,000 residents and served as the base for a Roman legion.

Its position on the banks of the Euphrates River and along the Silk Road made it immensely wealthy, and this wealth was displayed in home furnishings. Frescoes uncovered from the villas appear almost as fresh as when they were painted nearly 2,000 years ago. Beautiful mosaics depict a vanished culture’s mythology. Many graceful stone columns stand in place, and around them are remains of walls and plumbing, iron window frames and lamps that illuminated nights long ago.

To save Zeugma’s mosaics from submersion, many were removed to a museum in the nearby city of Gaziantep.Several weeks ago, Sankar and I drove from Gaziantep east to the Euphrates River where we found Zeugma and the remains of a large terraced dwelling above the dam’s waters. A museum is being built around this dwelling, but it is not yet complete, so we were allowed to wander around freely and at no cost.

Preserved Zeugma dwelling, soon to open as a museum

Ancient splendor: mosaic floor uncovered by archeologists

Three-paneled mosaic “carpet” and other, separate sections

The next morning, we visited Gaziantep’s brand new Zeugma Museum, said to be the largest collection of mosaics in the world. Many tell the stories of Roman gods and goddesses.

Oceanos and Tethys among underwater friends

Oceanos, a laid-back beach bum

This fish swims upside down in the Oceanos mosaic

The relaxed god of the Euphrates, with river water flowing out of his jug

Eros (Cupid) and Psyche in love

Border detail, Eros and Psyche mosaic

Parthenope and Metiochus, legendary lovers who could never be united. Ironically, parts of this mosaic were separated for years and finally brought back together.

This famous mosaic is known as the Gypsy Girl. It could be the goddess Gaia. Or it could even be a young Alexander the Great.  What is (s)he thinking?

Here is an interesting video that explains the Zeugma mosaics:

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=8323657299167199011#

Now let’s look at Byzantine mosaics. Since Istanbul was for over a thousand years the center of Byzantine Christianity, many of its churches feature exquisite religious mosaics, created to inspire religious fervor and devotion.The Pammachristos church, built in the 11th and 12th centuries, has some of the finest mosaics in Istanbul.

Pammachristos

St. Anthony, brightening an otherwise dark ceiling arch

St. Gregory the Illuminator, looking down from a richly-decorated ceiling dome

St. Savior in Chora is considered the finest surviving example of a Byzantine church.The current building dates from about 1077, but the mosaics that cover the interior walls were placed between 1315 and 1320. The walls and ceiling mosaics detail the geneaology of both Mary and Jesus, and portray important scenes from their lives.

St. Savior of Chora

The Journey of the Magi

Blessing the loaves

The blessing of the baby Mary

Jesus holding the Bible, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11:28)

Changing water into wine. Wine pot mosaics are actual ceramic fragments

Herod’s massacre of the innocents

Finally, we have Istanbul’s famous Hagia Sofia, dedicated in 537 CE.  The largest church in Christendom for over a thousand years, its walls feature stunning mosaics.

A formal depiction of Mary, Jesus and Emperors Justinian and Constantine

Detail of Emperor Constantine’s robe in another panel

Visitors turn a corner in the upper gallery and see this stunning Jesus mosaic.

Although our eyes integrate mosaic pieces into something whole, the artist must go further.  His/her greatest challenge is to express and convey emotion. How does the mosaic artist do this? To capture and convey nuanced expression, the artist selects the finest, smallest stones, and uses the most subtle gradations of color. 

Small stones, the gravel under our feet. They are the details, the emotions of the mosaic world.  

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]]> https://suesturkishadventures.com/the-zeugma-mosaics/feed/ 5 https://suesturkishadventures.com/the-worlds-first-mega-church/ https://suesturkishadventures.com/the-worlds-first-mega-church/#comments Fri, 24 Aug 2012 11:05:00 +0000 https://suesturkishadventures.com/the-worlds-first-mega-church/ Empires put up buildings, and when those empires are religious, they put up buildings of worship. The Roman Empire was weakening when, in 324 CE, Emperor Constantine opened a second branch 840 miles to the east. He built a new church in the city he named after himself. Completed in 360 CE, it was known as the Hagia Sofia, Sofia being the phonetic spelling of the Greek word wisdom. In 410 CE…

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]]> Empires put up buildings, and when those empires are religious, they put up buildings of worship.

The Roman Empire was weakening when, in 324 CE, Emperor Constantine opened a second branch 840 miles to the east. He built a new church in the city he named after himself. Completed in 360 CE, it was known as the Hagia Sofia, Sofia being the phonetic spelling of the Greek word wisdom.

In 410 CE Visigoths destroyed Rome, and the western half of the empire sharply declined. Constantinople became the center of the Christian world, and the Hagia Sofia became the symbol of Byzantium.

Fires and revolts destroyed several versions of the Hagia Sofia. The current building was put up by Emperor Justinian I between 532 and 537. Built on a scale unprecedented in human history, it was the largest church in the world, and it maintained this status from 360 to 1453 CE, over a thousand years. It remains the finest example of Byzantine architecture.

Of his work, Justinian was said to have proclaimed, “Solomon, I have outdone thee!”

Ten thousand workers built the Hagia Sofia to a height of 180 feet, the same height as the Statue of Liberty’s torch. They completed its massive dome in only five years. The building measures 230 by 246 feet and its dome spans 102 feet. Its interior is full of handcrafted mosaics dating back as far as the eighth century. Other inside surfaces are made of green, white and purple marble.

In 1204 Latin Crusaders offended by Eastern Orthodox beliefs sacked the Hagia Sofia, stealing many of its precious relics. After the Muslim conquest in 1453, the Hagia Sofia was turned into a mosque. Kemal Ataturk, founder of the modern Turkish Republic, proclaimed it a museum in 1934.

Nowadays the largest structures in the world are factories, office buildings and shopping malls. But even now, the Hagia Sofia is the fourth largest church in the world. It receives about three million visitors each year.

I cannot fully imagine the how a person of the sixth century, accustomed to squat, dimly-lit structures, would have felt standing in such an enormous, enclosed building.  The fact that it stood at all must have seemed like a miracle, proof of the immense power of God.

Today’s mega-churches are built to serve large congregations, and most are not architecturally distinctive. I tend to view these buildings as expressions of overweening pride, ignorance of Jesus’ message of simplicity. But I find it difficult to think that way about a building that has stood for 1500 years. Any venality or baser motives on the part of the Hagia Sofia’s creators has been lost to the ages. Endurance trumps vanity. Brilliant architecture trumps mediocrity. I realize that my sentiments lack consistency.

Let me show you some photos of the church, visible from almost every part of Istanbul’s Old City. The lovely structure is different each time I see it, so I find myself continually photographing it.

Viewed from a ferryboat on the Golden Horn. Minarets were added during its mosque years.

Closer view — note orange stucco facade

Angled view — note buttresses, added in the ninth or tenth centuries

The interior of the church is vast, impossible to capture in one photograph. Here are some attempts.

View toward front. Medallions in Arabic commemorate Muslim prophets. Note how small visitors appear.

The building’s interior glows with tones of gold, burgundy and gray-green.

Fresco of Mary and Jesus on side of dome

People come from all over the world to see the Hagia Sofia.

The other amazing aspect of the Hagia Sofia is its mosaic panels. To see some of them, you have to trudge up a long, dank, medieval ramp. I love how the otherwise obsessively clean Turks have kept this ramp as is, with the dirt of ages ground into the floor. At the top, around a corner is a dazzling surprise.

The expression on this mosaic panel moves many visitors to tears.

Mary and Jesus with Emperor Johannes Comnenus II and Empress Eirene

Gold mosaic detail

I love the Hagia Sofia.

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