Sankar’s job was winding down. He had already started working on projects in other parts of the world. It was time to head home. “We’ll be home for Christmas,” I told Angela on the phone. I loved those sentimental words.

“No,” she replied. “I want one more Christmas in Istanbul.” Greg agreed.

Sankar and I were surprised, but pleased.

Even though our kids had visited the past summer, we had new things to show them. The Panorama Museum, with its 360-degree floor-to-ceiling murals that put visitors in the middle of the battle for Constantinople. Akdeniz Hatay Sofrası, where you could call ahead and order delectable chicken or lamb roasted in a salt casing. Sensus, a new wine bar next to the Galata Tower. The Anglican church we’d belatedly joined, Crimean Memorial.

On Christmas Eve, the temperature in the fifties, the four of us drove to the nearby suburb of Gayretepe (gayret = endeavor; tepe=hill) and left the car in a parking ramp. Then we jumped on the metro to Taksim Square. We walked the length of Istiklal Avenue, passing roasted chestnut vendors, window-shopping, and admiring the holiday lights that arched over the iconic street. We ran into Pastor Ian, sitting outside a coffee shop smoking a cigar with a friend, and stopped at Sensus for a glass of wine and some hors d’oeuvres. Fortified, we headed to church.

We arrived at the service early to get seats. The church was filled with people we knew. Robbie, a Californian who had married a Turk and worked in public relations for the AKP Party. Robbie had always been particularly friendly to me. Professor William Hale and his wife, Kathleen, Brits with whom we’d gone on ARIT trips. I had been surprised at William’s fluency in Turkish. Beate, a long-time Istanbulu from Germany, who had invited me to dinner at her historic Terabya home one weekend when Sankar was away.

We gave up our seats to Warren Winkler, an eighty-something American physician who had worked in Turkey since World War II, and his stylish Dutch wife, Ineke. We had attended a party at their lovely,  unusual home, a former Turkish bath.

I love evening church services and this was our first in our new church’s late nineteenth century building, with its choir screen separating the altar from the nave, adorned with frescoes including one of the Christ child grasping a simit (Turkish bagel).

After the service, we spoke with a British couple we had recently met. They were new in Istanbul. Now I hugged her goodbye, feeling wistful: all the confusion and exhilaration of the city was ahead for her. For us, well, movers would arrive as soon as the kids left.

Ümit was taking our guest beds and the desk Sankar had so thoughtfully purchased for me before I arrived. We were shipping most everything else back home. But what to do with our liquor? We owned a surprising amount, given that we rarely drank it. A large bottle of rum, which I’d bought for a cake recipe—a smaller size wasn’t available and, with fifty percent tax, the bottle had cost close to $75. Two bottles of rakı, Christmas gifts from 3M Turkey (along, one year, with a carton of Marlboros). A bottle of gin, and some scotch left over from when Sankar’s brother visited.

We decided to give all of these spirits to our 3M friends, Gökhan and Burcu, who had invited the four of us for a final meal at their apartment. That evening, we loaded all our bottles into the trunk of our car for the drive over the bridge and into Asia. When we reached their place, we discovered that the rum had spilled all over the inside of the trunk. We carried the rest of the bottles into their apartment and forgot about the rum.

We stayed late at Gökhan and Burcu’s apartment that night, and didn’t get back home until after midnight. The kids were flying out early the next morning; we’d be back in the car again by 5:30.

It was still dark as we set out for the airport. Sankar took the freeway entrance toward Atatürk International and accelerated confidently; there was little traffic at this time of day. But then he noticed several police cars, and an officer standing on the left side of the road, motioning us over. We stopped—had we been speeding?—and Sankar rolled down his window. The officer leaned in and without a word, stuck a plastic device in Sankar’s face. Then, issuing a sharp command, he shoved the breathalyzer right into his mouth.

The car still reeked with the fumes from the spilled rum, and I turned toward the kids, my eyes wide. Sankar passed the test and the officer waved us on. But we were shaken. “Can I get sick from having something like that in my mouth?” he asked.

It was the flip side of that Turkish order and kontrol we’d so often admired.

I had started leaving Istanbul months before our departure. I began by saying goodbye to seasonal treats I knew I’d miss. In April: grand gardens of tulips in every shade of pink, red, and yellow, and hundreds of ordinary roadside plantings. Goodbye, lale!

In June: mulberries, little white sweetnesses dangling from tree branches, fortifying my ascent from sea to apartment. Goodbye dut!

In summer: the juiciest, most luscious melons I have ever tasted, some with orange or yellow fruit, others bright green. They lasted for a while after harvest, but finally in mid-fall I ate my last one. Goodbye, wonderful kavun!

Then it was time for pomegranates, ruby red and bursting with flavor. They were still in season as I left Asia Minor, but goodbye nar!

And the sea, a visual reward. I would so miss those unexpected glimpses of pale blue water shimmering at the turn of a street, or a spray of mist as the car rounded a bend. I didn’t say goodbye, but I tried to fix each dreamlike view in my mind.

I also began saying goodbye to the language I’d tried so hard to learn. Ever since my summer visit home, my Turkish skills had been weakening. I could no longer understand conversations as well as I had in May and June, and my speech became more hesitant. “From now on, I’m going to listen to at least an hour of Turkish television each day,” I declared in my final months, but then avoided doing so.

As I intensified my wanderings around the golden city, checking off items to see one last time, I was pulling back. While I tried to stay in the moment, I could also see myself as I’d soon be: far away.

Maybe 55 had been the perfect age to meet Istanbul. I had been ready for its melancholy, what Orhan Pamuk calls the city’s huzun. The visitor is constantly reminded that Istanbul is old, and it is a reminder that you, too, will be old.

Filled with huzun, I had, more than once, longed for an entire life lived in Istanbul. To know all of its wisdom and secrets. I had learned to make difficult personal changes here. I had learned to create optimism and to cope with things I didn’t agree with. I had learned to accept lavish hospitality that I, myself, could not reciprocate. I had been humbled in Istanbul, but I had also stood up for what I believe in. But surely there was a lot more the city could teach me.

In the apartment when all was quiet, I took stock. Had our marriage improved? Had we made a better go of things here than in Costa Rica? Yes to both. Our marriage had been strengthened through discovery of shared interests, particularly in ancient and medieval history. This discovery had occurred in great part because I had opened myself up to it. I had set out for Turkey with a positive attitude, and had (mostly) refrained from complaining.

Had Turkey solved all of our problems? Surely not. I still lamented my lack of professional success, and sometimes, took out negative feelings on Sankar. And Sankar still had a tendency to brush off my concerns. But I smiled as I recalled his frequent efforts to make me happy here, cobbling together bits of Turkish, Spanish, and English to help us find the way to our next historic treasure.

Turkey had showed me that I could overwrite the patterns we’d developed in Costa Rica. That I could break the cycle of resentment and blame, and instead speak up and ask for resources to help me succeed. When a space was cleared that had once been full of negativity, there was room in our marriage to let common interests bloom. We had grown closer through our magical explorations with ARIT and by hosting numerous visitors. We had made wonderful new friends, and we had a list of Turkish places, such as the lost Armenian city of Ani, that we still wanted to visit together. Forever now, at least when we talked about Turkey (and we would talk about it a great deal), we’d talk as a team.

The most challenging experiences often produce the most rewards. The year spent teaching—the hardest job I’d ever had—had actually been a balm. It had provided a crucial sense of accomplishment, enhancing my sense of self and easing our fraught expatriate relationship. It had given me insights into the Turkish culture that I wouldn’t have gained sitting in our apartment or hanging out with other expatriates. And it had allowed me to be the kind of American I wanted to be: hardworking and dedicated. For a long time after I left Turkey, I would think of ÖzU as my employer, and its teachers as my colleagues.

My job had also pointed the way to a new career: teaching English as a Second Language.

I was proud of how I’d handled the challenge of Turkey, and I was already looking back on the experience with satisfaction. I would not only miss Turkey, but I’d miss myself in Turkey. I had, for the most part, been wise here.

Finally, our last morning—a Saturday in January. We’d already bid farewell to our Turkish and expatriate friends, our apartment, and our neighborhood, moving for our two final days to the Radisson Blu in Ortaköy. Ümit was busy with a family matter, so we’d already said our goodbyes to him. We expected to take a cab to the airport, but Taner, Waverley’s driver, did something I would surely not have thought to do: he volunteered to get up early on his day off so that our last ride wouldn’t be an impersonal one. He arrived at 5:15 am to take us to the airport.

In Istanbul, traffic is never far from mind, but as Taner turned left out of the Radison Blu, I smiled. The Sea Road was ours this morning! We were in for a quick ride on the most consistently clogged road in the city. Over the years, I had sat for what seemed like hours on its surface, studying the shiny, black and white photographs of Atatürk’s life on the Yildiz Parki walls to pass the time. Now, we whizzed along, and I busied myself trying to think of something pithy to say to Taner to mark our last car ride in Istanbul.

We were approaching the Galata Bridge when I emerged from my reverie. Just ahead was Eminönü, the centuries-old, maze-like commercial area I’d been most drawn to during my time in the city. I hadn’t planned to see Eminönü again; Ümit would have taken us on a newer route west of the city. But here it was, in all its ancient splendor. And like me, it was just waking up.

The rising sun was hitting the dome of the Suleimaniye Mosque, Sinan’s sixteenth century masterpiece, at the very top of Istanbul’s Third Hill. The largest mosque in Istanbul: how many times had I climbed crowded streets past Istanbul University to visit this house of worship? How many times had I gained a sense of peace from its soaring, taupe and terra cotta interior and enjoyed a timeless view from the green expanse on its north side?

From Suleimaniye, Eminönü’s buildings cascaded down the hill toward me, so crowded together that they looked as though they stood on risers. It was as if the heart of Istanbul had convened a special chorus to bid me farewell. I felt emotions rising; how was I going to go on living without weekly trips to Eminönü?

Still dark, but its outlines visible, on the right side of the “choir” stood the small Rustem Pasha Mosque, another Sinan jewel, adorned with precious Iznik tiles. The mosque had been built on top of a block of businesses. I had been inside it a half dozen times and just the week before, had ascended to its courtyard on the way to a nearly-hidden spice vendor with Greg.

“Take off your shoes and go in,” I urged him impulsively, and he did so without protest, emerging some minutes later to remark, “It felt really good in there.”

The Spice Bazaar itself, Byzantine-striped and surprisingly diminutive given all that it contained, stood in the front row. To its left, the multi-domed 17^th century New Mosque, my absolute favorite; I always felt like I was inside a cloud when I stood in its sanctuary. The plaza between the two, usually bustling with visitors and pigeons, was dark and quiet. Behind them receded a tangle of little streets winding up to the Büyük Valide Han, where we loved climbing to the roof and hearing surround sound prayer call.

And finally, in front like a featured soloist, the magnificent Hamdi Restaurant, overlooking the Golden Horn, where we always took guests for their first lunch. They never failed to marvel at the view of water, medieval towers, and minarets that seemed only to lack a flying carpet or two.

How often had I walked in and out of Eminönü’s shops, buying boxes, cooking chocolate, coffee cups, Turkish Delight? Enjoying smoky whiffs of grilled beef, lamb, and chicken. Stopping for a morning su boreği, or an afternoon kunefe at the outdoor lokanta where a hatchet-faced man stood day after day grilling the melted cheese and syrup dessert. How many tiny tulip cups of tea did I sip in shops throughout Eminönü? How many times did I climb up through the maze to the Grand Bazaar or walk down from the Bazaar in the late afternoon when bescarfed Turkish shoppers were out in force?

We expatriates joked that everything in the world could be found behind the Spice Bazaar, and it was true. Buttons, fabric for a Christmas tree skirt, Turkish coffee, barbecue grills, outlet strips, Jordan almonds, the idiosyncratic red and white tea sets everyone used, googly eyes for a children’s craft project, umbrellas of every design. . . there was even an entire store dedicated to baby showers.

I wanted one more moment with the Eminönü choir, but we were already across the bridge. As Taner turned left, I gulped and blinked away tears. Sankar was intent on a text message to China, working as usual, which somehow seemed appropriate. He had worked much of the experience away, and that had given him other insights.

A moment later the fanciful pink Sirkeci train station, the last stop on the Orient Express, came into view. How I had enjoyed pointing out this belle époque edifice to visitors on our way to Sultanahmet. Now we were heading west on John F. Kennedy Caddesi, an eight-mile stretch that hugged the Sea of Marmara. The ruins of Emperor Theodosius’ double-thick sea walls lined both sides of the road. Built of stone and double-baked brick in the 400s and never breached, they were worn to an oatmeal-like texture, crumbling to nothing in some places and rising impressively in others. Several bus stops and two lighted billboards—one for KFC and one for something called Kofte-mania—stood in front of them, a metaphor for the mix of profound history and bright novelty that is Istanbul.

On we went, one mile, two, and then finally a big corner chunk of wall arose on our left, the Marmara Sea glistening behind it. This is where the sea walls turn at a right angle away to march across land, becoming the land walls. I looked to my right for a last glimpse of Constantinople’s land walls, climbing north with the slope of the land and then finally curving east to meet the water at the Golden Horn. They were considered state-of-the-art for a thousand years but, thanks in part to the invention of cannons, a section was finally breached in 1453, allowing the Turks their turn in this marvelous city.

The corner chunk was a farewell sentry. Now we were outside the walls, the Old City behind us, passing handsome modern apartment complexes, hotels, and a convention center. We turned and drove under the grand, Soviet-like arch that announced Atatürk Havalımanı, parked, and got out of the car, pulling suitcases loaded with Turkish clothing, jewelry and gifts. Taner could have simply dropped us off, but he came in and waited until all our ticketing and baggage was taken care of. Even at the very end, unexpected generosity. “We can never out-nice these people,” I thought for the umpteenth time.

We had come down from our magic carpet ride. Back in America I would feel an odd exhilaration: I had seen so much beauty, majesty, and wonder; I had challenged myself and grown more than I thought possible; surely I had something to new to offer to my country. But I also felt, with great conviction, that nothing else I experienced would ever be as profound.

Turkey. Asia Minor. Quite simply: where we come from.

Inside the airport, checked in and through passport control, I glanced at Sankar. He would never think of weeping in public, but as we headed to our gate, he stopped and looked back toward where we’d just bid Taner goodbye. He paused for a moment and then he looked at me beside him, and nodded. Together, we walked toward the waiting airplane with the same thought in mind. We had been happy here.

The post Leaving Istanbul appeared first on Sue's Turkish Adventures.

In February, we sat with travel buds Arlene and Scott looking at maps in our National Geographic atlas. Should we go to Romania? Sankar says it looks like Switzerland, but with bargain basement prices. How about Poland, with its huge northern forest and fascinating, preserved Krakow? How about Slovakia, where at a Bratislava hotel, Sankar was given a free night’s lodging for being the first American to stay there?

After some discussion, we decided to focus on Croatia and Hungary. We had heard that Budapest was an ornately lovely city, and that Croatia had a coastline both scenic and historic. We would start in  Budapest and then rent a car and drive south through Croatia, looping back to finish in Hungary.

The Ottomans ruled this part of the world from the fifteenth to the seventeenth centuries, and I was hoping to see what they, and perhaps even their Byzantine predecessors, had left behind.

Hungary is landlocked, and its geography has been stable for nearly a century. Croatia is one of the world’s newest countries, carved, along with six other countries, out of what used to be Yugoslavia.

The long, curving edge shows that Croatia received most of Yugoslavia’s Adriatic coastline.

Arlene and I made our hotel reservations in March, including an airbnb apartment in Budapest. Then we put the trip on the back burner. Before long, however, it was mid-June and we were packing to go. After an overnight flight to Amsterdam and a short hop southward, on Wednesday, June 18, we landed in Budapest.

A Paprika of Discoveries

Our apartment was centrally located on the Pest side, decorated charmingly by IKEA. After a quick nap, we commenced touring the city. One of our first stops was the old Central Market, where we discovered the secret of paprika. It is simply red pepper powder.

We gazed at dozens of impressive 19th century buildings, and admired the stunning Parliament buildings along the Danube. We rode the historic #2 tram along the Danube, and ascended in a funicular to St. Matyas Church atop Buda Hill. One evening we went to a “ruins bar,” one of many bars built in old Communist buildings.

A Historical Reminder

An emotional highlight was The Shoes, a riverside monument to the Jews of Budapest. In 1944-45, a group of Jewish adults and children was brought to the river, ordered to take off their shoes, and then shot, their bodies carried away by the river. On the present day bank of the Danube, just a stone’s throw from Parliament, are 60 pairs of shoes, representing those left on the bank.

A Brand New Country

On Saturday we headed south across flat green plains into Croatia. Our first stop was Varazdin, a picture-perfect hamlet in northwest Croatia. In the mid-1700s, Varazdin was the capital of all of Croatia. There was not much of Ottoman or Byzantine interest, but we enjoyed a lovely reconstructed Baroque downtown, a 15^th century cathedral, and a restored 14^th century castle.

The next day we headed to the coast, the land gradually becoming drier and more hilly. We stopped at  Senj (pronounced Senny) on the Adriatic to see what we thought was an Ottoman fortress.  Our National Geographic guidebook described it as such, and it was called a kula, meaning tower (the Turkish word is kule). But inside, the plaques and inscriptions we read described the fortress as having been built in in 1558 to fight the Ottomans.

Hmmm, interesting. I was skeptical about the information on the plaques–was it merely self-serving?– but once I got back home I uncovered a preponderance of sources that confirmed the fortress as Croatian.

Then along the winding coastal road to Zadar, which encompasses a peninsula, settled in antiquity. Zadar was laid out for trading in the 9^th century B.C., taken over by the Romans in about 60 B.C. and then passed to the Byzantines in 550 A.D. The oldest buildings and fortifications include remains of a Roman forum founded by the Emperor Augustus in the third century A.D.

One building looked familiar, and I realized that I had become so accustomed to Byzantine stonework in Turkey that  I could recognize it almost instantly. It was a 9^th century basilica, built right on the Roman forum, now called the church of St. Donatus. One of those rare moments when you realize you possess a new and surprising bit of expertise.

A Divided Land

In the Middle Ages, the Orthodox Christians of Constantinople were vying with the Catholics in Rome to gain converts. It was in Eastern Europe that these  maneuvers were taking place. Is it any wonder that the former Yugoslavia ended up partly Orthodox and partly Roman Catholic—and later, partly Muslim?

Onward the next day through Trogir, another island town—nothing Ottoman or Byzantine, but a fine, small castle called Kamerlengo built by the Venetians in the 15^th century. We climbed to the top of it to view the whole town.

Then on to dazzling, unforgettable Dubrovnik, a medieval walled city smack on the Adriatic coast. I wasn’t expecting this kind of historical splendor, and it was certainly the highlight of our trip.

Our innkeeper, a tall, gregarious woman named Simona, told me she had visited Turkey six times and loved it. “Dubrovnik was never ruled by the Ottomans,” she told us. “It did pay protection money, however.”  The city was under Venetian and then Hungarian rule in the 11^th and 12^th centuries, and became a tributary of the Ottoman sultan in 1458.  An earthquake destroyed much of it in 1667, and in the 1680s the Ottomans lost the light control they had over Dubrovnik.

We did not see evidence of Byzantine or Ottoman construction. One of our Dubronik highlights was walking atop the medieval fortification walls. Here are several of the many photos we took.

Our stay in Dubrovnik was too short, and we left a bit sadly. Arlene mentioned the idea of bringing her entire family for a visit, and that was soothing. We could also think of coming back.

Bosnia: Scary?

A few miles west of the city we turned north and headed through forestland into Bosnia to see the single span stone arch bridge at Mostar. Considered one of the best examples of Ottoman architecture in the Balkans, it was built in the 16^th century, and designed by Mimar Hayruddin, a student of Sinan. The bridge was destroyed during the war in the 1990s, but rebuilt in 2003. The city was pleasant and its inhabitants friendly.

Then back to northern Croatia, with its forests and damp. We stayed in the middle of a park in an old mansion at Karlovac, and then headed via Zagreb back into Hungary.

Entering Zagreb our GPS struggled: it didn’t like hills. While Scott and Sankar maneuvered, I focused on the scenery. Lovely, parklike boulevards with elegant houses ringed the city. Could 3M transfer us here? I wondered. Somewhat by accident, we ended up in the center of town, facing the quaint, tile-roofed main cathedral.

We enjoyed walking around the spotless, well-preserved Gornji Grad, or Upper Town, with its 17th century buildings. For lunch, we descended to the Lower Town and bought some borek, one of my favorite Turkish foods, a pastry dish layered with white cheese.

After that, several hours on a winding, picturesque road from Zagreb northeast to the Hungarian border. Miles of small villages with cozy-looking old cottages brightened by bunches of red flowers. (By the way, the weather was perfect every day: sunny and upper 70s to low 80s, and the roads, most part of an easy-to-use toll system, were in superb condition.)

Capital of Culture

Late in the afternoon, we arrived in Pecs, which in 2010, along with Istanbul, was named European Capital of Culture. The small city’s historic sights lay in a compact area that was again very quiet—does Hungary have a monopoly on calm?—and we walked to most of them the next day: a cathedral, an early Christian mausoleum, a history museum, an old mosque. . .

. . . also a synagogue, and a pretty fountain with characteristic Pecs “blue glass.”  We saw few other tourists. A very good meal at Enoteca Corso Restaurant along the central pedestrian mall finished our visit.

Then on Saturday, back to Budapest. At one point we passed a sign for Mohacs, the site of a fierce 1526 battle in which Suleiman the Magnificent defeated Hungarian forces. We probably should have stopped, but we weren’t sure what there would actually be to see, so we kept going.

Up, up, this time to the city of Buda, facing Pest across the Danube. We had some cleanup touring to do in Budapest: see the famed Gellert baths and visit the National Museum. After that, we walked through the now-familiar streets across the Chain Bridge to Buda, once again taking the funicular up the hill. Our street, Uri Utca, was filled with stately, historic homes, but we had little time: early Sunday morning we had to fly back to Amsterdam and home.

And now, an Op/Ed

After a short trip, particularly the first to an area, one is left with various free-floating impressions. Here are a few of mine.

• The Hungarian language is totally unrelated–words, syntax, grammar, everything–to those of its German, Latin and Slavic neighbors. It is only faintly related to Finnish and Turkish. These are facts. How does linguistic isolation shape national psyche?
• Hungarians are reputed to be superbly hospitable; unfortunately the short-term tourist misses authentic interactions with locals.
• I was impressed with the intellectual climate in Hungary: frequent signs advertising classical concerts and lectures, and a conversation with a Gentile man who walked us around Budapest’s Jewish quarter with frank, honest explanations of Hungarian brutality.
• In both Croatia and Hungary, people were friendly and spoke English (I hate needing my own language, but there it is).
• We did run into a few cases of indifference among Hungarian tourism staff (a lingering effect of Communism?).
• Both countries had excellent English translations on signs, much better than in Turkey, where non-native English speakers take on this task. The results made Hungary and Croatia look smart and sophisticated.
• Neither country has the vast agriculture production of Turkey, even though Croatia’s climate is similarly Mediterranean. Displays at roadside stands and in farmer’s markets were sparse: cherries, a few apricots, tomatoes, melons and peppers. (I happily encountered some Turkish-like words: alma for apple and patlizsan for eggplant.) Restaurant meals did not feature many fruits or vegetables and, to our surprise, coastal Croatia did not offer much variety in the way of fish.

The more I think back on our trip, the fonder I grow. We traveled to places visited by  few people we know, requiring a certain focus and concentration. Now that we are familiar with Hungary and Croatia, I’d like to go back and enjoy them again — just as we would old friends.

The post Hungary, Croatia and what the Ottomans left behind appeared first on Sue's Turkish Adventures.

After leaving the museum, we did some window shopping, walked to a new restaurant for dinner and then returned home by cab. Our day involved crossing and recrossing Taksim square three times. Less than 24 hours later, the place was attacked by a suicide bomber, with 32 people injured. It is domestic terrorism, not religious or anti-American in nature, but a long-standing ethnic conflict. We were warned a year ago that in Turkey, “ever so often a bomb goes off.”

On Sunday morning we drove to Edirne, two hours west, to see Turkey’s most magnificent mosque. The road was excellent and we passed barren fields that had been radiant with sunflowers in the summer. For a few miles the misty, blue-gray Sea of Marmara came into view, but we were mostly among rolling plains and sparse vegetation.

There was little traffic on the road, but we did pass a truck that had something written on it about Iran. I sat up and wished I had looked more closely. Then its twin came into view. Yes, it was from Iran, carrying a load of goods to Europe, sanctions be damned!

We arrived in Edirne about 1 pm, or so we thought. Turns out Turkey had changed from daylight savings time the night before, and we didn’t know it. Another one of those little occurrrences we routinely miss here.

The Selimiye mosque dominates the center of the little town, although several other mosques stand nearby. The weather was warmer than Istanbul and the light more intense. We had heard liver is the specialty of the town, and indeed all the little restaurants seemed to have the word ciger printed on their outside boards. We went into a cafe and ordered some. It came heaped on a plate, thin slices, deep fried and delicious.

The proprietors seemed surprised to have foreigners in their restaurant and wanted to make us happy. After our meal, we were asked if we wanted tea. We receive this question quite often at restaurants and usually say no thanks, but I often wonder if that is a faux pas.

I asked my Turkish teacher about this last week and she said no, it is perfectly okay to refuse tea in a restaurant. So we told the young waiter, hayir, tesekkurler. A few minutes later, however, an older guy, stocky and with salt and pepper hair, obviously the owner, emerged with a smile and “asked” if we wanted tea. The Turks are like this, strong-minded, and we knew not to refuse.

Two tiny, complimentary glasses immediately appeared on saucers with a couple of cubes of sugar each. Then a plate with wet wipes for our hands, a pile of cloves and some tiny, wrapped hard candies. We enjoyed the treat and paid the bill. As we left, the waiter standing at the door (there is always someone there to thank customers and wish them well) motioned for us to wait, and squirted lemon-scented lotion onto our hands. This is an ancient custom, something we’ve only seen once or twice in Istanbul, but we walked away feeling very well cared for.

The mosque is stunningly beautiful, built by Turkey’s renowned architect Sinan, in the mid-1500s. Inside, it doesn’t soar as much as the Blue Mosque in Istanbul, in fact its bright, splendid dome gives the impression that you can reach out and touch it. My photos don’t do it justice, but google the Selimiye mosque in Edirne if you’re interested.

While we were walking around inside the building, a young Turkish woman heard Sankar say something in English, saw the guidebook he was holding, and approached us with some questions. In perfect English, she told us that Mimar Sinan left a signature tulip design on every mosque he built. Also, Sinan’s work was considered so perfect that out of respect for God, he also left a small, intentional error somewhere in each building. She was wondering if either of these was discussed in our guidebook. Together we paged through our book, but found no mention, and we thanked her, saying she had given us more information than we had given her. A few minutes later she came up to us again and exclaimed, “We found it!” She and her architecture student sister had located the tulip, carved in marble near the base of a fountain inside the mosque. Didn’t find any error, however!

Mosques are carpeted and you leave your shoes outside. We saw a man who had brought his young son, perhaps six years old, with him to pray. They were, of course, both stocking-footed, and apparently the carpeting was just too much of a temptation, because they soon began laughing and “rassling” around on the floor with each other. It was a charming moment, true to the spirit of religion and also to the playful genius who built the masterpiece.

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