What are we going to do for the next two plus days? We’ve been to Istanbul’s major tourist sites more than once, and we either don’t yet know about or aren’t confident in our ability to get to the lesser ones. We don’t even have errands to do; I’ve already completed them with Umit.

Thankfully this August weekend is different: we have an invitation! Sankar’s Turkish colleague and his wife, both in their mid-thirties, have invited us to Bozcaada (Boz = earth-brown; Ada = island), just off Turkey’s Aegean coast. It will be a four-day weekend as Turks are observing the Zafer Bayram, Victory Day, commemorating the reclamation of Turkey from Allied Forces in 1922. We’ll leave for Bozcaada early Saturday morning, stay in accommodations on the island, and return to Istanbul on Tuesday. Even tonight we’ll be filled with purpose: packing our bags, throwing our Insight Guides in, and setting our alarms.

The term “Greek Islands” comes off the tongue with such familiarity it sounds like a single word. But the existence of Turkish islands is little known. Triangular-shaped, and fifteen square miles in size, Bozcaada is the smaller of two Aegean islands granted to Turkey in the 1923 Treaty of Lausanne. This finalized Turkey’s settlement with the World War I allies.

Bozcaada was called Tenedos by the Greeks and was long important because of its location at the entrance of the Dardanelles (known in ancient times as the Hellespont), the strait of water linking the Aegean to the Sea of Marmara, the Bosphorus and the Black Sea. Tenedos was where the Greeks hid their fleet in order to convince the Trojans that the war had ended—and thus to accept the Trojan horse. The island was involved in the 14th century Venetian-Ottoman conflict and served as a staging place during World War I.

With a year-round population of about 2,000, Bozcaada’s economy has been based on fishing, fruit, and wine since classical antiquity. 17th century travel writer Evliya Celebi, writing about Constantinople, commented, “The taverns are celebrated for the wine from Ancona, Sargossa, Mudanya, and Tenedos.” The island is also known for its strong northern winds.

The plan is for Sankar’s colleague to meet us on Saturday morning at a point on the E-80 highway just west of the Second Bridge. He and his wife have also invited two of their Turkish friends to join us. The four of them will be parked in a black Passat alongside the road. We will see them and pull over, and then our two cars will take off together.

I am flattered we are being included; this group is younger and would surely have a good time without us. It is an example of receiving a kindness here that I don’t know if I’d give: I would probably not invite a foreign couple along if I was going out of town with friends.

The highway meet-up goes as planned. After we pull up, Sankar’s colleague, trim and dark-haired, dressed in jeans and a sport shirt, gets out of his car and approaches ours. He hands Sankar a bag that includes fresh poğacas (savory, scone-like breakfast treats) and two bottles of orange juice. Another instance of kindness, and I think fast and pull out a bag of homemade chocolate chip cookies and give them to him. Guessing that chocolate chips wouldn’t be available in Turkey, I brought a large supply from home as well as two bags of brown sugar. Our hosts will comment on the cookies’ exotic flavor and ask for the recipe.

Our two-car caravan sets out, driving west through Istanbul’s diminishing sprawl and then along the Sea of Marmara. We are heading toward Greece and Bulgaria, but we will turn south before reaching international borders.

The piece of land we are on, wedged between the Balkans, the Aegean, and the Black Sea, is a historical area called Thrace. It is sometimes referred to as Rumeli, a word evocative of Rome, whose Eastern Empire flourished in Turkey for a thousand years.

Fields of sunflowers (for some reason, Turks call them ayçiçeği, moonflowers), grown for both oil and seeds, appear as soon as we leave the city. Soon both sides of the road are carpeted in yellow. The flowers stretch up gentle hills and into the horizon, their faces looking toward us as we move with the sun from east to west. I want to take a picture, but hesitate to stop both cars, and content myself with numerous shots from the car window, most of which turn out as yellow blurs.

After an hour, we pull over at a rest stop, a low, pastel-colored outlet mall with twenty or so shops, spic and span restrooms and, sitting on a new cement slab with spindly trees for shade, an outdoor tea garden. Sankar and I chuckle at the concept of an outlet mall, which we have heretofore considered solely an American phenomenon.

We sit down with tulip glasses of hot tea and meet our other two traveling companions, a divorcee in her forties with long chestnut hair, and her bearded, pleasant-looking 22-year-old son.

Then we continue south, through Şarkoy and onto the long Gallipoli peninsula that forms the western barrier to the Dardanelles. Fields of sunflowers continue, now on smaller plots slanting down to the Aegean.

This land was the site of World War I’s Gallipoli campaign, an intense naval and amphibious attempt by the Allies to capture Constantinople so as to gain a sea route to Russia. Many thousands of troops from Australia and New Zealand (referred to as Anzac forces) were sent to fight in this campaign, and over eleven thousand lost their lives under the hot Aegean sun.

Under the command of Mustafa Kemal, who would rename himself Ataturk, the Turks repelled both the naval and the land attack in a major defeat for the Allies. It was a defining moment in Turkish history as the motherland was saved, and it was also the beginning of national consciousness for colonial Australia and New Zealand.

Memorials to soldiers from both sides dot the peninsula, and each April 25, families from Australia and New Zealand arrive to observe Anzac Day. In 1934, Ataturk sent the following message to Anzac mothers:

To those heroes that shed their blood and lost their lives . . . You are now lying in the soil of a friendly country. Therefore rest in peace. There is no difference between the Johnnies and the Mehmets to us where they lie side by side now here in this country of ours . . . you, the mothers, who sent their sons from faraway countries wipe away your tears; your sons are now lying in our bosom and are in peace. After having lost their lives on this land they have become our sons as well.

Near Çanakkale (çana = friendly; kale = castle), the peninsula’s largest town, we catch a ferry east across the strait to the mainland, and then drive south to Geyikli, where another ferry will take us out to the island. This convoluted route is hard to understand without a map, and as we drive Sankar and I reflect that, with our landlocked Midwestern sensibilities, we wouldn’t have been able to manage it on our own.

Now we simply follow our friends’ car without thinking. Our hosts are also relaxed, and we make a couple more stops, eating a magnificent “mixed grill” lunch at the Troia Palace restaurant, and stopping by the ruins of Troy, a World Heritage site grandly proclaimed by an impressive sign and a faux wooden horse representing the one the Greeks hid in, but actually not much more than a rectangular mound of earth and several large clay amphorae.

Still, it is Troy, and we walk around hoping to catch the mood of ancient warfare and treachery. Finally we look at our watches and exclaim at the time. Only a half hour until the ferry leaves! We get back in our cars and zigzag with alarming speed through a series of tiny Aegean villages, making sharp turns on narrow, paved roads.

When we finally arrive at the pier, a white sedan we’ve been following hesitates, and our two cars edge past it and into the line of cars waiting to board. We end up being the last two vehicles allowed on this, the last ferry of the day, and for the entire weekend we joke about how “the guy in the white car” is surely angry and coming after us for revenge.

We received the invitation late, and this is a holiday weekend, so we are not able to stay with the group at their hotel. No problem; we’ve reserved a room at Hotel Katina only a few cobbled blocks away in Bozcaada Town—a picturesque grid of whitewashed one- and two-story dwellings with shallow-pitched red roofs and brightly-painted doors. We walk with our bags through its miniature streets. Alongside each dwelling sit wooden tables covered with tablecloths: instant family cafes, waiting for dinner occupants.

Hotel Katina is a two-story, hundred-year-old residence. Its windows feature blue grillwork and hanging flower baskets, and one of its outside walls is covered with grapevines that wind their way via an electrical line across the street and down the wall of a smaller building. Inside, the rooms are decorated in an incongruously sleek Euro-modern style that we will discover is quite typical in Turkey.

The six of us reconvene for a dinner of grilled fish at tables set up just a few feet from the wharf. The weather is warm and the sky a deepening violet. We are so close we can almost touch the colorful fishing boats that bump and jostle each other, making the silvery water splash upward. The physical separation of the island is facilitating our mental separation, and Sankar and I can finally relax. We will sleep well here, and wake feeling none of the jarring unfamiliarity that has been our companion all summer.

Each morning after breakfast, our four companions head to the beach. They return at lunchtime, only to set out for the beach again in the afternoon.

Two beach trips in one day seem like a lot of sun to Sankar and me, and we don’t want to overburden our hosts who, without us, can chatter away in Turkish. So we decide to stay back in the mornings. We have brought a couple of Turkish language textbooks written by a UCLA professor named Kurtuluş Öztopçu, his very name seeming to embody the difficulty of Turkish. The two of us sit at a little wooden folding table outside the hotel’s front entrance taking notes, watching the few passersby and smiling at the hotel’s namesake, Katina, as she bustles from the hotel proper to the vine-covered breakfast room across the street. This middle-aged dynamo is definitely the family powerhouse; her husband spends mornings at a teahouse down the street, sauntering home only at lunchtime.

Perhaps Katina senses our watchful neediness—despite some kind friends, we feel bereft, marooned here in Turkey—because she frequently stops her work to chat or to ask us if we want a pastry her bake staff is pulling from the oven. And one morning she walks up to us with an emphatic story in rapid Turkish that finishes with a laugh. Thanks to the timely arrival of an English/Turkish-speaking couple, we get the translation. Katina has had a dream about us—and in Turkish lore, that apparently means we are thinking about our mothers. Sankar melts, “We have the same saying in south India!”

Late Sunday morning we leave our books and set off by ourselves to explore the gray stone castle/fort that guards the harbor. It is long and relatively low, with crenellated walls interrupted by squat, hexagonal towers. We walk through weeds around it, reading in our guidebook that the Ottomans built it on a spot formerly used by Phoenicians, Genovese and Venetians. We reflect on Turks’ reputation for ferocity and decide that, with 5,000 miles of exquisite, strategic shoreline, it is fully justified.

A bored guard ignores us as we duck under a stone arch and enter the keep. We climb to a balustrade for a view of the tiny, curving harbor, feeling the gusts of wind the island is known for.

On Monday morning, our companions take us to breakfast at a nearby inn called Maya. The place, hidden behind an ordinary façade on a nearby street, offers a typical Turkish breakfast—olives, tomato slices, white cheese, boiled eggs—served in an enclosed outdoor garden, but is well-known for its extensive variety of homemade fruit preserves, eaten on bread pulled fresh from a wood oven. Indeed, several tables in the middle of the courtyard groan with a sticky paradise that includes standbys like strawberry and cherry, but also tomato, fig, lemon, rose, sweet pepper, mulberry, and ayva (quince) jams.

I don’t care deeply about jams and jellies, but pride in homemade preserves is “a thing” here, a cultural tidbit we are picking up thanks to our companions. Their eagerness to teach us about Turkey is one part an effort to deepen our friendship and two or three parts an expression of their intense love for their country.

I am beginning to see that, while some countries modernize and leave old customs behind, Turkey maintains a firm sense of its historical self. We are learning that Turks have a distinctive cuisine for every meal of the day and we will soon encounter peculiar beverages such as sahlep, a hot drink made from dried orchid roots, and boza, a fermented bulgur brew sold in the evenings by men who walk the streets with copper pots yelling, “boza.”

Each region in Turkey has distinct songs; indeed one evening soon we will poke our heads into a traditional Turkish meyhane, tavern, and listen to a chorus of Turkish men lifting cups of rakı, anise-flavored liquor, and singing mournful-sounding Arabesque folk songs.

Most of these customs, though different, do not seem strange; indeed they seem to echo our own culture’s past, which also contained preserved foods, folk songs and root-based drinks. Perhaps by getting to know Turkey, we will come to know ourselves better. At this point, I want to know everything.

In the afternoons, tubes of sun cream in hand, we head with our hosts to the beach. We pay a small fee to enter and occupy spots under charming pale blue wicker umbrellas. The water is warm and shallow, the sand soft, and the sea deep azure blue. In the distance we can see the craggy hills of the mainland.

In contrast to my female companions who wear bikinis, I wear a sturdy one-piece suit. Sankar wears some new trunks he’s had to buy from a shop near the wharf. They are long and droopy, their fabric patterned with beach scenes, and we tease him about his “partay” duds. We sit with our friends  in the sun, reading and dozing.

Leaving the beach, we drive the long way around the island, noting its barrenness and modest-sized rocky cliffs—were the Greek ships hidden behind these?—and stop at one of twelve wind farms, pausing to read signs describing how much power is being produced for Turkey. Then at the southern coast, we stop in at Corvus, the most prestigious winery in Turkey. It is startling to walk into a large, modern tasting establishment and realize that the gentlemen standing at the long counter, ready to pour, are all Muslims. We sample the same cabernet sauvignon that President Obama was served on his 2009 trip to Turkey, and purchase a few bottles to go.

Sun-dazed, after a rest, we reconvene in the early evening, and walk to one of the island’s restaurants. Under the shade of a huge plane tree, we eat pasta and more grilled fish, and sample deniz borulcesi or sea beans, long green segmented stems, not much thicker than cooked spaghetti. For dessert, a local delicacy: poppy syrup sorbet, tart and gingery, made with red poppy petals.

With the loneliness and challenge of Istanbul far away, Sankar and I can shine in our role as grateful guests, new kids in town to whom much can be explained. We ask questions in tandem, nodding to each other as we take note of new information. We exclaim our interest in future trips: one to southeastern Turkey is mentioned and will materialize in the fall. When something challenging is said—a comment that Turkey’s Kurds “. . . don’t want to work”–we remain silent, saving any analysis or re-hash for when we are alone.

These newly discovered social skills—questioning attitudes, intent listening—are both pleasing to us and promising.

One evening after dinner, I bring up the topic of our surprise at Turkey’s gleaming prosperity. “I don’t claim to know much about Turkey,” I start. “But it has a reputation for being—well, poor—and I’m guessing that reputation was true not too many years ago. What happened here to change all of that?”

Our companions are quick to answer: “Turgut Özal. He opened up the economy in the nineties, allowing more foreign investment.” They go on with specifics. I have heard the man’s name before and will look it up when I get back to Istanbul.

All too soon Tuesday morning arrives and we pack up for the trip back to Istanbul, hugging Katina goodbye, driving our two cars onto the ferry, and watching the little island recede as the boat approaches the mainland. We head back up the Hellespont, the water first on our left and then, after the second ferry, on our right.

Ever the good host, Sankar’s colleague has planned a final treat, a dinner stop at Tekirdağ, a town renowned for its kebabs. The six of us enjoy delicious, salty grilled lamb and peppers at the town’s best restaurant, our skin still flushed from the island sun. Then we glide east alongside the Sea of Marmara, the setting sun blending sea and sky together into a pale blue haze.

The trip has been unique. It has refreshed us and readied us for another run at Istanbul. It has given us some glimpses of Turkish culture—and Turkish hospitality. I am beginning to see that the Turks are wise and charitable in the ways of friendship, and I wonder if something in their upbringing, perhaps something more communal than ours, gives them this ease.

The sky is black as we approach Istanbul, but the city lights set the entire horizon aglow.

The post A Turkish Island 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.

Went to the airport on Saturday morning and waited for our visitors, Scott and Arlene. To pick up travelers, you have to go through security, but after that, you can sip coffee at a Starbucks or a Gloria Jean’s (a California franchise), and pass the time. At the arrivals door I saw two adorable little girls with long, neatly combed brown hair, holding bouquets of flowers for their dads’ arrival. I took a picture of the board – it gives a glimpse of the international neighborhood we are in.

We are driving our third leased 3M car. This one, to my chagrin, is a BMW. I would like to drive around Turkey in a beatup Ford. But there is office hierarchy to think of. Sankar cannot drive a vehicle that is “lower” than what the marketing managers are provided. Our choices were a Mercedes or a BMW. The car had to be ordered and we had just received it two days before. Getting in with our guests, we failed to close the driver’s door completely. Oddly, there was no indication of this on the dashboard, but on the freeway returning from the airport, two different cars full of people came up next to our car, honked, rolled down their windows and pointed at the problem, obviously concerned. Our problems are everyone’s problems here.

It was great to see Arlene and Scott, and we were thrilled the day was sunny. It had rained the entire week before (Turkish weather is unpredictable and highly changeable, somewhat like Minnesota weather, only without the lower range). After lunch, we walked down through Arnavutkoy with its quaint shops and wooden Ottoman houses, to the Bosphorus. There we strolled along a cement path, dodging corn-on-the-cob sellers, people walking their dogs, and fishermen casting their lines behind them with no regard to a passerby they might snag, and then flinging them out into the salt water.

After twenty minutes we came to Rumeli Hisar, the star of a major drama that played out in 1453. The city of Constantinople was up until then Christian, but Fatih Mehmet, an upstart Turk from the east, changed that. In 4 months, using 3,000 workers, he built “The Castle of Rumelia” on the shores of the Bosphorus, directly across from Anadolu Hisari, a smaller castle that his grandfather had built. They stand at the very top of the map above, two structures facing each other across what appears to be a river.

The castle gave Mehmet control of the upper Bosphorus and traffic in and out of the Black Sea, but he still could not conquer Constantinople, just a few miles south. The Golden Horn, the waterway running northwest to southeast (see map) around a horn-like point and into the Sea of Marmara, was protected by an enormous chain that floated on buoys. Part of the original chain is on display at a museum in Istanbul, and I will try to see it this weekend, and take a photo for my next blog.

Mehmet finally prevailed by thinking creatively. He used oxen and wheeled platforms to drag seventy ships up the hill from the Bosphorus, heading west and then south, and then slipping them into the city behind its defenses.

The rulers of the city had known for months that they were in trouble, and had appealed for help to other countries, but I try to imagine the first person that saw the hulking ships—black shapes sliding down toward the water—and realized what that meant. It was the end of Christian Constantinople and the beginning of Muslim Istanbul. You can see this proclaimed on T shirts here. One Scott and Arlene pointed out this past week reads, “Istanbul. Since 1453.”

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