I recalled our own look-see visit in January, 2010, sixteen months ago. It seemed like years ago, the city wintry and strange and both of us tentative, intimidated. Now Istanbul was in full spring bloom—and increasingly it felt like home.

Before I answered Sankar, I hesitated. I’d gotten used to spending my evenings doing two seemingly contradictory activities: resting and obsessing about the next day’s teaching. But I knew this wasn’t really making me a better teacher. On the few occasions when I hadn’t given the next day much thought, my lessons had turned out just fine. I decided I could go out to dinner, carry on a conversation, and perhaps even get home after my bedtime without professional disaster.

I didn’t hold out much hope, however, that we would become friends with this new couple. I had rarely found 3Mers kindred spirits. In Sankar’s thirty years with the company, we had been to an array of Christmas parties, anniversary dinners, and marketing and technical banquets. The events always featured cocktail hours in which I made small talk with accompanying spouses, mostly female. Then we sat down to eat and made more small talk. I don’t know if others began friendships at these events, but I generally found the conversations strained.

Sankar ‘s colleagues liked him, and he spoke positively about nearly everyone at the office, but he was focused and highly competitive, and rarely thought to ask a colleague to do something outside the office. Except for taking an occasional international visitor out for dinner, the two of us did not have a 3M social life.

Now I told myself to expect an evening of light chitchat, with the exception that I might have to answer a few questions about how to settle in and adjust to Turkey.

The next Tuesday evening, Waverley and Ray Eby arrived at our house for hors d’oeuvres. They were both tall and thin, Ray with dark hair and Waverley with pale blond hair and skin, wearing stylish pink glasses. We sat on the balcony with glasses of merlot and bowls of pistachios. They exclaimed at the view—Judas trees were in full flower and dotted the forested coastline in purple—and started to talk. Before I knew it, an hour had passed and we were late for our dinner reservation down on the Sea Road.

The pair described interesting, unusual lives. Both hailed from Mississippi, yet surprisingly had no trace of Southern accents. They had spent a year in their twenties trailing the Grateful Dead around the U.S.; had both obtained law degrees; and then had moved to Washington, D.C, Waverley to teach at Georgetown Law School, and Ray to study in the Great Books program at St. John’s College. They now lived in St. Paul with five children ranging in age from six to eighteen, the youngest three adopted and African American. Waverley, now a stay-at-home mother, talked about the varied personalities of her kids and the challenges of relocating a large family overseas, but mostly expressed enthusiasm about the transfer.

The four of us sat for hours that evening—next day’s teaching be damned. With the setting sun’s rays glancing off the water and onto the old seaside houses of Asia, we discussed the merits of various Istanbul neighborhoods, the best strategies to get to work, and the multitude of must-see Turkish attractions.

When the topic of what I did in Turkey came up, Sankar broke in, to my surprise, telling them about my job, and announcing that “Sue works harder than I do.” I wasn’t sure that was true, but it was gratifying to hear the pride in his voice. And it was also gratifying to hear myself produce confident information about grocery stores, newcomer groups, farmer’s markets, and expatriate outings. This pair seemed to be bringing out the best in us. How lucky we were that they would soon be our neighbors.

In any move to a new place the adjustments—to climate, work, friendships, getting around—all take place concurrently. When the move is overseas and language and culture are thrown in, this can be overwhelming. Everything is new, everything demands extra attention at the same time. But then all of the adjustments start to wane—also concurrently—and there comes a point at which not much is new anymore. I was just arriving at that point, discovering that I finally possessed some understanding of what had been, up until recently, a completely foreign place.

When had I arrived at this new level of competence? Had the new knowledge come in gradually, dripping in with each new experience, as if through an IV? Or had it rushed in one night when I slept, relaxed and unaware?

The feeling—not entirely unfamiliar, as I’d also experienced it in Yemen and Costa Rica—was pure exhilaration. It was as if I had extra space in my lungs or enhanced vision to see all the color and beauty around me. And this exhilaration had a physical component as well, a loosening in my shoulders and a decrease in the amount of muscle strain I habitually felt. I wasn’t as tense every time I went out; often I was barely tense at all. I caught myself smiling instead of frowning in concentration, and I was now able to step back calmly and patiently when a situation looked to be challenging.

From here on, new adjustments would pop up, but they would no longer be the norm; they would occur against a background of relative ease. Now I could finally put myself into a Turkish context and see, instead of a middle-aged, struggling expatriate, a woman with some competence, kind of like the woman I had been back home. I wasn’t yet a pro here; I had misses in addition to hits, but the wider brushstrokes of the culture now made sense. Perhaps best of all, this newfound confidence freed up emotional energy, making space for flexibility toward new situations Sankar and I were bound to face, and changes in routine that were ahead.

At Özyeğin, big Nergis announced a different schedule for summer. We teachers would teach fifteen, not twenty hours each week: five hours on each of three days. A few months before, the idea of standing in front of a class for five hours would have thrown me. But now it didn’t. I grimaced, but knew that I could do it. Besides, the up-side was two days off each week.

And summer would bring visitors. In early June, just as the school year was ending, Laurie, my mainstay in the months before I moved to Turkey, and her husband, John, were planning to arrive from the States.

I was looking forward to our friends’ visit, and to being a more skillful hostess than I’d been earlier. At the beginning, with our earliest guests, we had simply been clueless. With Jonathan we’d walked the long way through hot streets to catch a cab. We had piled in the car to take Jean and Mary to the Old City, only to sit in fierce traffic as the tram glided past us toward the attractions. We visited the Hagia Sophia at peak hours, and showed up at the scenic Hamdi restaurant with no reservations, annoying the staff. Now we knew better. In fact we had already identified and then paid a visit to the hotel in the Old City where Laurie and John wanted to spend their anniversary night, to make sure it was a suitable choice.

Laurie and John had almost cancelled their visit. The media frenzy over the recent news of Osama bin Laden’s capture and death had unnerved them, convincing them that a Muslim country would be unfriendly to visiting Americans.

I knew there was no need to be afraid; I knew our visitors wouldn’t be in any danger. How did I know this? Well, first of all, I’d observed the Turkish reaction. At ÖzU, just hours after the news came (we found out early on Monday, May 2; it was evening on Sunday, May 1 in the U.S.), a Turkish colleague mentioned it at a staff meeting, commenting that she was pleased, but that it was never good news when someone died. Another Turk expressed disbelief, and yet another shook her head and remarked, “he’s been dead for years.” After less than a minute, the conversation turned to other topics. At 3M, Sankar heard no comment at all, and neither of us had heard anything after that day.

And beyond that, I had simply taken in enough that I could now surmise that, unless one of their own was harmed, Turks were generally blasé about Middle Eastern mayhem. I also knew, however, that it is difficult to counter fear, to soothe people with the unconvincing sounding, “Don’t worry, nothing is going to happen.” I waited a few days to reply to the message Laurie had sent, and during those days, coverage in the U.S. dropped, and they decided to go ahead with their trip.

Our plans were to show Laurie and John around Istanbul and then, since my spring teaching module would be over, accompany them southwest to Ephesus and environs. I knew ÖzU was going to give us teachers a weeklong break before its summer session began, but our department was on a different schedule from the rest of the university and, typically, big Nergis hadn’t announced when our week off would begin.

As the module and exams finished, she sent a memo saying, “teachers must stay at school all day Wednesday to finalize grading.” Drat. We had planned to leave town with Laurie and John that morning.

What to do? We decided Sankar would drive Laurie and John down to Ephesus early on Wednesday, as planned. Then, at some expense, I would catch an evening flight from Istanbul to Izmir and hire a car to drive me to Ephesus.

SELI had scheduled a potluck for Wednesday noon, and had posted a food and beverage signup sheet in the conference room. Nearly half of the teachers had scribbled “beer” or “wine” on the sheet. I found this surprising—I still expected Muslims to eschew alcohol—but I missed the larger clue about the actual length of our workday.

On Wednesday morning, we entered our students’ scores into the ÖzU system and discussed close cases individually with Big Nergis. Then lunch—and ample tippling—began. After that, to my surprise, everybody packed up and left for home. They had all known the workday would end after lunch. But since my flight didn’t leave until 6 pm, I remained, sitting alone in a strangely silent office. When, inevitably, Nergis came by and peered in, asking, “What are you doing here, Susan?” I could only laugh ruefully: another learning experience.

Sankar and I spent a day touring Ephesus with Laurie and John. Then we headed to the coastal resort town of Çesme (fountain). It was Friday afternoon and the weather was perfect, but the roads and beaches were nearly deserted. We even had the hotel pool to ourselves. Standing outside a carpet shop where Sankar was helping Laurie and John negotiate for a kilim, I figured out the reason.

First, although it was mid-June, schools were still in session, so families with children were not yet free for vacation travel. And second, a national election was scheduled for Sunday, just two days hence. I was pretty sure Turks who wished to vote—and current Prime Minister Erdoğan, running for his third term, inspired strong feelings, both positive and negative—needed to remain in their home precincts. Ha! It was our beginner’s luck to have picked the best possible summer weekend to visit the Aegean coast.

I stood, preening over my deduction skills. Looking at the shops nearby, the Turks walking past, and even the ocean peeking from behind the streets of shops, I realized they no longer looked so foreign. They looked like places I could figure out, places where I could, with just a bit of effort, understand and be understood.

We had planned to return to Istanbul from Çesme Saturday afternoon after some sunbathing. But in Turkey, historical sites always beckon, and there on our map, less than fifty miles out of our way, were the ruins of Pergamon, an ancient Greek city perched on a hilltop outside the town of Bergama. The four of us decided to take off from Çesme early to squeeze in the ruins, and Sankar and I felt confident enough to follow a new route and still make our late afternoon ferry reservations.

After briefly getting lost driving through modern Izmir, we arrived in Bergama. To our surprise, traffic was heavy. What was going on? As we inched along Ataturk Bulvari, I noticed a plethora of temporary-looking street signs and, with a little help from my pocket dictionary, was able to determine that the town was expecting a campaign stop that day from Kemal Kiliçdaroğlu the main opposition party’s candidate for prime minister. We managed to turn off the main road, circle the town, and locate the gondola up to the majestic ruins, serenely perched high above the commotion.

The next morning, as we dropped Laurie and John off at the airport, we learned that Mr. Erdoğan had won, with 49.8 percent of the vote.

The summer module—fifty talkative Intermediate students, all of whom managed to fail the course—ended in late July, and I packed up and headed back to Minnesota for the month of August. Sankar would follow. This routine was the same as it had been when we lived in Costa Rica, except now the back-to-school items I was looking for (mainly better whiteboard markers, which I planned to hoard) were for me, not for Angela and Greg.

I carried a list of household items to buy at Target—ziplock bags, ranch dressing mix, canned pumpkin—that due to their unavailability had become almost talismanic. I was sure I’d be a much happier person when I had these things with me in Istanbul.

In mid-August, Sankar arrived, and we attended a near-daily round of get-togethers with friends and family. We had been home just seven months earlier, but this time something was different: neither of us could stop talking about Turkey. About the friendly, hard-working people. About Turkish cuisine, bursting with fresh vegetables. About municipal services—roads, buses, subways, boats—that were in excellent repair—what a contrast to our own recession-neglected infrastructure. Sankar wanted people to know that, although Turks were Muslim, they tended to keep their religion to themselves. And with India’s chaotic crowds in mind, he sang praises about the orderliness of Turkish public spaces. Finally, we both raved about the historical sites we’d seen. All of this may have bored our listeners, but at least the two of us were thinking along the same lines.

While we were in Minnesota, Waverley and Ray and their brood arrived in Istanbul and begun settling in. Since we were away, Umit was assigned to drive them around. It was Ramazan, however—and this meant he was refraining from eating and drinking during the daytime hours. It was a sign that we had emerged from our newcomer self-centeredness that we worried about him sitting, thirsty, in a hot car day after day, waiting for the Eby’s to complete myriads of newcomer errands.

In late August, Sankar and I flew back to Istanbul. We noticed that the construction across the street from our apartment had progressed, and that our apartment swimming pool—in full operation this year—was now surrounded by colorful patio furniture. Our upstairs neighbors, Sema and Pinar, greeted us like long-lost friends. It was a delight to put our new items away and to skillfully restock our apartment with groceries, and I reflected on how busy and happy the last few months had been.

“I’m going to the yarn bazaar tomorrow,” said the voice on the phone. I had answered it in surprise; my Turkish cell phone rarely rang. It was Waverley, calling to see if I wanted to join her and perhaps take in a historic mosque or two.

The yarn bazaar? I had never heard of a yarn bazaar, even though I enjoyed knitting. How had Waverley found out about a place like this so soon? It looked like I was going to have to be quick to keep up with her! The outing sounded like great fun, but alas, I had to say no. The next day, in fact most of the remaining days of 2011, I would be in the classroom.

The post In The Know 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.

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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.

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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/ruins-and-restorations/ https://suesturkishadventures.com/ruins-and-restorations/#comments Mon, 11 Jun 2012 05:06:00 +0000 https://suesturkishadventures.com/ruins-and-restorations/ For the last week, Sankar and I have been sightseeing in southwestern and southern Turkey. He calls our trip a mop-up tour since our goal was to visit places in the area that we had previously missed. First, we headed to the southern Aegean coast, where three ruined Greek cities lie. We tromped through Priene, Miletus and Didyma. Temple of Athena at Priene Medusa, Didyma Temple inscription at Didyma It is…

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]]> For the last week, Sankar and I have been sightseeing in southwestern and southern Turkey. He calls our trip a mop-up tour since our goal was to visit places in the area that we had previously missed.

First, we headed to the southern Aegean coast, where three ruined Greek cities lie. We tromped through Priene, Miletus and Didyma.

Temple of Athena at Priene

Medusa, Didyma

Temple inscription at Didyma

It is hard to overestimate Roman influence in the ancient world. But seeing carved pillars and pediments scattered among weeds, and former metropolises abandoned on desolate hilltops reminded me that what is grand inevitably declines.

Shrine to Apollo, Miletus

We enjoyed staying at a country inn near Kusadasi where guests ate dinner together. We met a witty German couple close to our age, and an adventurous younger couple, he from Nebraska and she from New Zealand.

After that, we headed several hours east to Aphrodisias, a much-praised Roman city we had somehow missed a couple years ago. We were not disappointed. In ancient times the city featured a school of sculpture, which provided a glimpse of Roman society.

Nero and his mother, Agrippina the Younger

Friezes on Tiberius Portico, Aphrodisias

Sculptures near Roman baths

A late addition to our itinerary was Kekova. A Turkish friend had praised it as one of the loveliest spots in Turkey. Reachable by boat, Kekova is one of several islands off Turkey’s Mediterranean coast.

Village of Kale Koy (“Kale” means castle)

Our accommodations at nearby Kale Koy were simple, our hosts friendly, and the food we ate came straight from the sea. We climbed up to a Byzantine castle to gaze upon Lycian ruins, and took a boat ride to see parts of Kekova that sank in the second century AD.

Stairway to watery ruins

Lycian rock-cut tombs, circa 300 B.C.

Fortunate young Kale Koy residents

Our trip seemingly over, we headed north to Istanbul, prepared for two days of driving. We had reserved a hotel at the midpoint, Afyonkarahisar, and expected a provincial Anatolian town.

We were wrong. It was our turn to make a discovery: a town with lovely, restored Ottoman houses at the foot of a castle that sits high atop an ancient black rock.  An annual jazz festival was in progress next to our hotel, and at a late evening concert, residents came up to welcome us and bought us cups of tea.

The black rock, used as a fortress since the Bronze Age

Afyonhisar 10-year olds, delighted to meet a foreigner

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