We woke up in a leisurely fashion, with no firm plans. Well, we had one firm plan -- to stay in Selçuk. When we were up and dressed, our first mission was to find either Erdal or Nazmi and make arrangements to stay another night.
We had decided to stay in Selçuk and visit the market in Tire (pronounced Tee-ray) on Tuesday, rather than rush back to Istanbul Wednesday night in order to make it to a Thursday market in one of the neighbourhoods outside Sultanahmet. That meant we could push our departure to Pamukkale to Tuesday afternoon after Tire and then leave Pamukkale via the night train (Pamukkale Expresi) on Thursday night and then arrive in Istanbul Friday morning. This also gave us an extra day in Selçuk, which made us very happy.
It was no surprise that the Hotel Bella were able to accommodate us another night; we didn't even have to change rooms. Actually, when Erdal had found out that we were there on our honeymoon, he had offered to have us change to a 'nicer' room on the third night, when the 'nice' room freed up. We were blissfully happy in our slightly-less-nice room and all moved in, so we declined to be moved (though the thought was very nice). It was also going to be okay for us to leave our bags behind the desk while we marketed, and then we'd be given a ride to the train station.
Up at breakfast, relieved, we were sorry to see most of our new hotel friends, including Linda, getting ready to leave... breakfast was delicious, as usual.
Steve was feeling a bit headachy and the hotel was doing our laundry, so I volunteered to go get Steve a shirt from the town while he rested, which would also ensure that every scrap of clothing could be washed. I walked down through the fresh morning streets to the little store owned by the Tat Cafe guy and looked at tshirts. I had liked the idea of the bright red one with the Turkey flag on it, especially as today was 'National Day' (a patriotic holiday mostly marked by school children marching and singing). I found two tshirts in a reasonable size and was charged some ten lira each for them. That's much cheaper than a touristy tshirt in Canada. I was ok with the price and didn't bother haggling... especially as the owner had bitched at me the other day about tourists trying to haggle over every little thing when the markup was actually tiny.
On my way back to the hotel, I was hailed by a young man sitting outside a carpet store. I greeted him in return and he asked me a question, which I answered, and before I knew it, I was having a very interesting conversation with Marco (whose real name is Yıldız), owner of the Van Carpet Store in Selçuk. We ended up having a really interesting conversation about tourism and the effects of all-in-one resorts and hotels on small towns. He had asked if we had bought a carpet and I said yes, and he asked if it was at the hotel. When I confirmed yes, again, he told me in a very straightforward manner -- not accusatory, whining or trying to get me to buy a carpet -- that the hotels that are all-in-one don't really do tourists very well in the long run.
Basically, Marco's argument was that when a hotel puts you up, feeds you and sells you a carpet, you have dumped all your tourist wealth in one place. Sure, the owners of that hotel do really well, but what about the cafe down the street? Or the carpet shop around the corner? If they can't make it because all the tourists spend their money in the hotels, then they close up shop, and the town has a different flavour -- not prosperous and happy, but poor and desperate -- and then the tourists just won't come because there isn't anything to see. Then both the original hotel owners plus everyone else is out of business. Marco said that of all the thousands of cruise ship tourists that come into Kuşadası and come through to Ephesus and sometimes Şirince, not one stops in Selçuk.
If every tourist who got off a boat in Kuşadası stopped in Selçuk for a glass of water, everyone in town would be just fine, but they don't -- they go to the hotel, they eat there, they buy their tours there, they buy their carpets there, and all they do is look at the picturesque little towns and little shops and they don't buy anything in them. What could I do but agree? I can't even recall where the conversation went from there -- I remember saying I had to get back to my husband, waiting at the aforementioned hotel -- but then we'd find something else interesting to talk about. We talked about Turkey, and Canada, and carpets, and Lake Van where he was from (v is pronounced w). We talked about the Kurds (as he is Kurdish), and Iraq, Bush and American tourists. It was all very interesting and I was genuinely sorry that we had already bought our carpet.
After an hour or more, I tore myself away, promising to come and bring my husband, whom Marco was keen to meet.
I ran back to the hotel, which was only a half block away, and found Steve not quite fuming at my lateness. Nazmi had been keeping him entertained and Steve had made the payment for our carpet and hotel stay, emptying his pockets in doing so. Steve felt a little conspicuous wearing a bright red Turkey-flag, but decided to cope rather than go out naked. Good choice, Steve!
By this time, it was just about lunchtime, and in the spirit of spreading the tourist wealth, we decided to head into the centre of town and try and find the sandwich place the Cliftons had raved about. They had said it was near an area with stairs, on the side closest to the hill with the castle on it. We found the area with stairs -- a little plaza lined with restaurants and a few stairs at each end. We were casting around for the correct restaurant, dodging restauranteurs trying to thrust menus into our hands, when we heard our names being called out over the din.
There is nothing more startling than having your name called out in a foreign country where you have no expectation of knowing anyone or being known. It's a wonder we even answered to our names at that point, but we obligingly turned around and saw the Cliftons madly waving at us from tables set along the edge of the plaza. We walked on over and Mrs. Clifton was so pleased that we were looking for the restaurant she had recommended. We were so pleased she was there to point out the correct restaurant! They and their guests were just about to leave, so we ordered the sandwiches and snagged their table and their little kedi entourage that was busy begging for scraps. They were also going to the Tire market on the Tuesday, so said we might see them again there. We'd be glad to see them anytime, they were so friendly and helpful, even to the point of offering us a place to stay in Oxford, or the loan of their Greek house the next time we were in Selçuk. So nice!
The sandwiches, when they arrived, were quite startling unto themselves, but, like the Cliftons, in a very good way indeed! I had ordered the special: salami, onions, cheese and an egg (I declined the ubiquitous hot pepper); Steve had got the special without egg and with hot pepper. We hadn't seen Turkish panini before now, and too bad we hadn't. It was easily the best panini I'd ever had, which isn't much of a stretch as I haven't had many. It was also the best panini Steve's ever had and that man knows a panini! It was hard but I managed to eat most of it myself: only a few bits of egg and salami were offered to and wolfed down by the kitties.
During lunch, we had chatted a bit about Marco and other pressing things, like Tracy's souvenir. Back in September, I bought this very laptop, and gave my parents a few post-dated cheques to pay off the last of it. Tracy had opted to tear up the October cheque in exchange for us getting her something of the same value that was inherently Turkish -- she didn't care what, exactly, but it had to be Turkish and over and above the birthday and Christmas presents she would already be getting. In order to carefully choose the best souvenir for her, we had considered and rejected most of what we'd seen: a vase or pottery was too fragile and not practical enough; jewellery (even Turquoise, her birthstone comes from... guess where -- Turkoise) was too personal; a leather coat too subjective and impractical; a nargileh too addictive -- you get the picture. We had been thinking textiles, as there were beautiful embroidered bedspreads and pillows and all manner of things, but we had shied away from a carpet, thinking it was too subjective a taste to buy for someone else.
After the conversation with Marco, I felt a a desire to support additional businesses in the town, and ultimately we decided that as everything was 'too subjective', our best bet was to buy something beautiful and practical, and use our best judgement in getting something that would appeal to Tracy. As a carpet is both beautiful and practical, it was actually a good bet.
We walked back to the carpet shop and were about to tell Marco what the plan was, when we saw what was spread out on the floor... silk carpets! Like kilim, flat woven, but made of SILK. They were simply amazingly stunningly beautiful. Marco explained that his family went and bought carpets around the Van area of southeastern Turkey, and then they shipped them to him. He would pick out the best quality ones and then sell the rest on to other carpet stores (yeah, no doubt everyone says this, but he seemed genuine). Steve was totally taken with one of the silk carpets, but it was easily a grand over our initial carpet budget. Fortunately, drool washes quite easily out of carpets... next time we get one of those!
Hanging out with Marco, his brother and his younger cousin was a hoot. We chatted and drank stupid amounts of tea, and admired carpet after carpet. For both practicality and beauty and value for our lira, we decided a kilim was the way to go. We looked at about thirty as I tried to picture each and every one in the front room of the Kaslo house. Finally we found the perfect one, and I took that as a sign to take a break and go to the tuvalet, which was located in the very back of the shop.
On my way back from the bathroom, I glanced up on the wall and saw the most wonderful kilim I'd seen in our entire time in Turkey -- on a black background, it was covered in little woven animals of every description! Goats and swans and camels and kedi (some even had stripes!) and bugs and all kinds of lovely things. When I admired it, Marco said that it was one of the ones his dad had brought him and he liked it so much he stapled it to the wrong side of a pillar where tourists would be unlikely to see it... apparently it had been up there, unmolested, for three years. I kept going back to it, but there was no way we could afford it as Marco wasn't really into haggling for it, since he didn't mind keeping it. Still, other than the fantastically expensive silk carpets, it was my most favourite-est thing in the store. This kilim was from the Van area, which is near Mount Ararat, where the hulk of Noah's ark is said to lie. The pattern with pairs of every animal, is traditional to the Van area, and is called a Noah's Ark pattern. It was a marvelous thing, and I wanted it very, very badly.
Finally, Marco said that he was ready to let it go, and reduced his price to where we could only just barely afford it within the confines of our carpet budget. Steve even offered to put my Christmas-present-budget towards it, but I hoped that wouldn't be necessary... it pretty much ate up the money we had been keeping back to buy a piece of ceramic with, but we both decided that this was a) more beautiful, b) more unique and c) more practical than pottery, especially in the 'getting it home' aspect. As Marco was picking staples out of the kilim, his brother walked in and was genuinely surprised that Marco had agreed to sell the carpet and confirmed his story that he'd deliberately hidden it for the better part of three years. We hadn't really doubted Marco, but one does wonder in a carpet store if one is being fed a line to make the item more desirable.
When given the shipping options, we again said that we'd take the carpets with us rather than having them shipped... which was again a stupid, stupid mistake.
In any case, replete with carpet, we decided to head out for some more sightseeing in town, but we promised Marco we would come back that evening to have some more tea and play backgammon.
After dropping off our carpet in our room at the Bella, where we felt only a tiny bit guilty telling Urdal that we had purchased a carpet somewhere else (though he seemed mollified that it was only a kilim), we walked up and over the hill to the Isa Bey Camii, which we had peered into from the heights of St. John's Basilica only a few days before.
The exterior of the mosque was very lovely and peaceful and the inside of the courtyard even more so. Apparently it's quite unusual for a mosque to have a courtyard, which is a shame, as this was so wonderful and serene. The little pool with spigots and wooden sandals was almost more magnificent than the marble and gilt fountains of the Blue Mosque, and more venerable in its simplicity. We walked the inside of the walls, seeing the occasional carved block of stone that must have been pilfered from the ruins of the Basilica. There were several plane trees, which I can only imagine are called that because they look just like the woodworking tool, even to the graceful sweep where one's palm would rest.
Eventually, a troop of French tourists came in with a guide, and they all gathered around the entrance. We thought we'd take the opportunity to go in with them, as we knew the mosque must be open for visitors at this time. As the tourists (funny how we didn't think of ourselves as tourists!) put on scarves over their shorts and tank tops, I slipped my red scarf up over my head and we took our shoes off outside the door and came in. We felt quite proper and rather like old hats of the mosque-visiting variety... right up until the moment I walked up to the man wearing a black suit and asked for "iki billeti, lutfen." The imam gently explained in halting English that you didn't buy tickets to see a mosque, at which I just about died of acute embarrassment.
I apologized over and over, but the imam very graciously waved off my apology and added that I didn't have to wear a headscarf or take off my shoes outside the door; in fact we only had to take off our shoes if we wanted to walk on the carpets. However, we very much did want to walk on the carpets, and stepped off the marble foyer onto the most amazing assortment of carpets. As we walked reverently around, the Imam explained that when they restored the mosque in the 1970's, they put a call out to the townspeople of Selçuk to donate carpets for the floor. The townspeople sure pulled through, as there was a most interesting and motley assortment of carpets all over the floor: no acres of broadloom here, instead there were carpets of lurid greens beside a cream with the lustre of silk, shiny nylon next to glossy wool, fresh dyes next to carpets with perfect wear marks (here knees, there a lesser imprint of devoted forehead).
After the French left in a flurry of removed headscarves and "au revoirs" we walked around again, enjoying the tranquility and chatting with Mustapha, the imam, who showed us pictures from a photo album of the mosque in disrepair and dis-roof. He had been imam since it was opened and was now past fifty (though he looked not much older than us). When we asked if we could give a donation, Mustapha advised that we could buy a book from his little display, and the proceeds would go to the upkeep of the Isa Bey. We picked out a Qu'uran, as we had wanted to buy one in Turkey anyway. He also picked out a card, and wrote our names on it in beautiful arabic script, with the date, the location (Selçuk), and a blessing. He gave it to us to tuck into our Qu'uran, making it clear that this was a gift (even though we suspected he usually charged for such things). An even better gift was his invitation to return in the evening, before evening prayers, as the the lights would be turned on and we would be able to see the interior more clearly than in the slight gloom.
Since we now had somewhere to be at 6:25pm, as evening prayers would be about 6:40pm, we thought we'd make the most of the last of the afternoon by taking a quick look at what was once one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. Getting to the leftovers of the Temple of Artemis took us straight out of the Isa Bey and down the street away from the Hotel Bella. We walked down the back street, past gates that were once painted bright colours, and a whole pack of kedi eating fish skeletons that were being thrown onto the cobblestones from a busy looking restaurant. When we reached the busy road that would have led to Ephesus, we turned right and walked down a beautiful avenue, under broad-branched trees. It was a little less serene when we walked past an army outpost with guards armed with machine guns... still not used to that!
We also passed some funny metal scuplture-y looking things that turned out to be public exercise machines. Weird!
A short walk later, we passed the entrance to the Temple of Artemis, and didn't even notice. In our defense, it's not very spectacular. At all. When we realized our error and backtracked the few metres to the entrance, we simply walked down the grassy road which was littered with broken glass and garbage, to the very uninspiring Post of Artemis. All that was left was a green space that showed a vaguely rectangular, sunken form, with one lone pillar that was more than half concrete. Obviously the Temple's stone had been looted in order to make other spectacular structures: the Basilica of St. John, the Citadel overlooking the town, and even our most beloved Isa Bey Camii. In some ways it was a shame, and in other ways understandable. The only regret I had was walking all that way to look at the Big Boring Post of Artemis.
We walked back into the town centre for dinner, which we found at the (L.P.) recommended 'Old House' restaurant. We ate in a beautiful little courtyard filled with orange trees which were full of crows. It being the gloaming-time, the crows were flocking, and apparently they were flocking in town, rather than up at the Basilica. In any case, the food was excellent, tasty and filling, and we had a floor show in the form of the restauranteur madly shaking the crows out of his trees.
Since we had an hour to kill before our date with the imam, we stopped by a random store and bought a bright red, not-too-flimsy suitcase to carry our treasures to Pammukale the next day. We also stopped by and saw Marco again. He was sitting on pillows out front of the carpet store with his brother, who was making big kuzu eyes at a very pretty blonde German girl called Marlena and playing backgammon.
We hung out for a bit before dropping our suitcase at the hotel and walking back up over the hill to the Isa Bey, where we were greeted warmly by Mustapha, and shown into the lovely, lovely mosque. Mustapha Bey was right: it was even nicer with the lights on and we were able to take lots of photos of the vivid carpets and the timber-arched ceiling. I realized a few minutes into our visit that I hadn't pulled my headscarf up; I immediately did so, apologizing and embarrassed again, and Mustpaha reached over to touch my chest over my heart and said "it's ok. Allah knows." Allah knew what? that I was contrite? That I'm not Muslim? That my intention was to be respectful but my memory prevented me? It didn't matter; I felt comforted and honoured at the same time.
As the amplified sounds of the muzzein drifted in from a distant minaret, Steve and I started walking to the door. Mustapha stopped us with a raised hand and told us that Isa Bey wasn't a major mosque and only three men had come to pray that night, and further, he had spoken to the men and they had agreed that we could stay. Pardon me? We had never spoken to a tourist who was invited to listen to prayers inside a mosque before. We weren't quite sure if Mustapaha said we could take photos or not, so we sat and leaned against a pillar, cameras at our side, and listened to the singing of the sura. The prayers were sung by an older man in a white coat, and it was beautiful: heart-breakingly, jaw droppingly, indescribably, life-changingly beautiful. The singing and the refrain, the practiced grace of the men as they bent and knelt to pray, the echoes ringing from high on the venerable stone walls: magical.
We felt incredibly privileged to be present in that place at that time.
After the prayers were done, Mustapha introduced us to the man who sang the sura: he was a retired imam, the most famous in those parts, and he had sung a specific sura about Mary and Joseph because we, newlyweds, were present. Mustapha marked in our Qu'uran the passage that was sung for us. If we could have felt more honoured in that moment, we would have been, but we were full to the brim with acknowledgement of our good fortune.
Walking back over the little hill to town, we couldn't stop talking about our experience at the Isa Bey. Why us? What did we do to deserve such a special experience? I recalled Mustapha reaching out a finger to Steve's Turkey shirt and saying he liked it... but surely a tshirt wouldn't have been the reason? I asked for tickets, which was pretty gauche, but I apologized, which might have redeemed us? We took off our shoes, we brought our own headscarf... maybe it was simply that he knew that Allah knew that we'd be receptive and reverent in that moment. Whatever the reason, we felt very blessed.
The night was yet early, and we were wired after our experience, so we headed back to the carpet shop where we sat on the carpets at the front of the store and watched Marco's brother let Marlena win at backgammon. We were joined by a pack of American tourists -- missionaries, actually -- who were VERY low key and respectful. We half-jokingly offered them some of our Canadian flag pins to attach to their lapels, but they declined. Most Turks recognize that an American who is traveling in Turkey, especially independent travel, didn't vote for Bush, and are respectful in turn.
After an hour or more, I tore myself away, promising to come and bring my husband, whom Marco was keen to meet.
I ran back to the hotel, which was only a half block away, and found Steve not quite fuming at my lateness. Nazmi had been keeping him entertained and Steve had made the payment for our carpet and hotel stay, emptying his pockets in doing so. Steve felt a little conspicuous wearing a bright red Turkey-flag, but decided to cope rather than go out naked. Good choice, Steve!
By this time, it was just about lunchtime, and in the spirit of spreading the tourist wealth, we decided to head into the centre of town and try and find the sandwich place the Cliftons had raved about. They had said it was near an area with stairs, on the side closest to the hill with the castle on it. We found the area with stairs -- a little plaza lined with restaurants and a few stairs at each end. We were casting around for the correct restaurant, dodging restauranteurs trying to thrust menus into our hands, when we heard our names being called out over the din.
There is nothing more startling than having your name called out in a foreign country where you have no expectation of knowing anyone or being known. It's a wonder we even answered to our names at that point, but we obligingly turned around and saw the Cliftons madly waving at us from tables set along the edge of the plaza. We walked on over and Mrs. Clifton was so pleased that we were looking for the restaurant she had recommended. We were so pleased she was there to point out the correct restaurant! They and their guests were just about to leave, so we ordered the sandwiches and snagged their table and their little kedi entourage that was busy begging for scraps. They were also going to the Tire market on the Tuesday, so said we might see them again there. We'd be glad to see them anytime, they were so friendly and helpful, even to the point of offering us a place to stay in Oxford, or the loan of their Greek house the next time we were in Selçuk. So nice!
The sandwiches, when they arrived, were quite startling unto themselves, but, like the Cliftons, in a very good way indeed! I had ordered the special: salami, onions, cheese and an egg (I declined the ubiquitous hot pepper); Steve had got the special without egg and with hot pepper. We hadn't seen Turkish panini before now, and too bad we hadn't. It was easily the best panini I'd ever had, which isn't much of a stretch as I haven't had many. It was also the best panini Steve's ever had and that man knows a panini! It was hard but I managed to eat most of it myself: only a few bits of egg and salami were offered to and wolfed down by the kitties.
During lunch, we had chatted a bit about Marco and other pressing things, like Tracy's souvenir. Back in September, I bought this very laptop, and gave my parents a few post-dated cheques to pay off the last of it. Tracy had opted to tear up the October cheque in exchange for us getting her something of the same value that was inherently Turkish -- she didn't care what, exactly, but it had to be Turkish and over and above the birthday and Christmas presents she would already be getting. In order to carefully choose the best souvenir for her, we had considered and rejected most of what we'd seen: a vase or pottery was too fragile and not practical enough; jewellery (even Turquoise, her birthstone comes from... guess where -- Turkoise) was too personal; a leather coat too subjective and impractical; a nargileh too addictive -- you get the picture. We had been thinking textiles, as there were beautiful embroidered bedspreads and pillows and all manner of things, but we had shied away from a carpet, thinking it was too subjective a taste to buy for someone else.
After the conversation with Marco, I felt a a desire to support additional businesses in the town, and ultimately we decided that as everything was 'too subjective', our best bet was to buy something beautiful and practical, and use our best judgement in getting something that would appeal to Tracy. As a carpet is both beautiful and practical, it was actually a good bet.
We walked back to the carpet shop and were about to tell Marco what the plan was, when we saw what was spread out on the floor... silk carpets! Like kilim, flat woven, but made of SILK. They were simply amazingly stunningly beautiful. Marco explained that his family went and bought carpets around the Van area of southeastern Turkey, and then they shipped them to him. He would pick out the best quality ones and then sell the rest on to other carpet stores (yeah, no doubt everyone says this, but he seemed genuine). Steve was totally taken with one of the silk carpets, but it was easily a grand over our initial carpet budget. Fortunately, drool washes quite easily out of carpets... next time we get one of those!
Hanging out with Marco, his brother and his younger cousin was a hoot. We chatted and drank stupid amounts of tea, and admired carpet after carpet. For both practicality and beauty and value for our lira, we decided a kilim was the way to go. We looked at about thirty as I tried to picture each and every one in the front room of the Kaslo house. Finally we found the perfect one, and I took that as a sign to take a break and go to the tuvalet, which was located in the very back of the shop.
On my way back from the bathroom, I glanced up on the wall and saw the most wonderful kilim I'd seen in our entire time in Turkey -- on a black background, it was covered in little woven animals of every description! Goats and swans and camels and kedi (some even had stripes!) and bugs and all kinds of lovely things. When I admired it, Marco said that it was one of the ones his dad had brought him and he liked it so much he stapled it to the wrong side of a pillar where tourists would be unlikely to see it... apparently it had been up there, unmolested, for three years. I kept going back to it, but there was no way we could afford it as Marco wasn't really into haggling for it, since he didn't mind keeping it. Still, other than the fantastically expensive silk carpets, it was my most favourite-est thing in the store. This kilim was from the Van area, which is near Mount Ararat, where the hulk of Noah's ark is said to lie. The pattern with pairs of every animal, is traditional to the Van area, and is called a Noah's Ark pattern. It was a marvelous thing, and I wanted it very, very badly.
Finally, Marco said that he was ready to let it go, and reduced his price to where we could only just barely afford it within the confines of our carpet budget. Steve even offered to put my Christmas-present-budget towards it, but I hoped that wouldn't be necessary... it pretty much ate up the money we had been keeping back to buy a piece of ceramic with, but we both decided that this was a) more beautiful, b) more unique and c) more practical than pottery, especially in the 'getting it home' aspect. As Marco was picking staples out of the kilim, his brother walked in and was genuinely surprised that Marco had agreed to sell the carpet and confirmed his story that he'd deliberately hidden it for the better part of three years. We hadn't really doubted Marco, but one does wonder in a carpet store if one is being fed a line to make the item more desirable.
When given the shipping options, we again said that we'd take the carpets with us rather than having them shipped... which was again a stupid, stupid mistake.
In any case, replete with carpet, we decided to head out for some more sightseeing in town, but we promised Marco we would come back that evening to have some more tea and play backgammon.
After dropping off our carpet in our room at the Bella, where we felt only a tiny bit guilty telling Urdal that we had purchased a carpet somewhere else (though he seemed mollified that it was only a kilim), we walked up and over the hill to the Isa Bey Camii, which we had peered into from the heights of St. John's Basilica only a few days before.
The exterior of the mosque was very lovely and peaceful and the inside of the courtyard even more so. Apparently it's quite unusual for a mosque to have a courtyard, which is a shame, as this was so wonderful and serene. The little pool with spigots and wooden sandals was almost more magnificent than the marble and gilt fountains of the Blue Mosque, and more venerable in its simplicity. We walked the inside of the walls, seeing the occasional carved block of stone that must have been pilfered from the ruins of the Basilica. There were several plane trees, which I can only imagine are called that because they look just like the woodworking tool, even to the graceful sweep where one's palm would rest.
Eventually, a troop of French tourists came in with a guide, and they all gathered around the entrance. We thought we'd take the opportunity to go in with them, as we knew the mosque must be open for visitors at this time. As the tourists (funny how we didn't think of ourselves as tourists!) put on scarves over their shorts and tank tops, I slipped my red scarf up over my head and we took our shoes off outside the door and came in. We felt quite proper and rather like old hats of the mosque-visiting variety... right up until the moment I walked up to the man wearing a black suit and asked for "iki billeti, lutfen." The imam gently explained in halting English that you didn't buy tickets to see a mosque, at which I just about died of acute embarrassment.
I apologized over and over, but the imam very graciously waved off my apology and added that I didn't have to wear a headscarf or take off my shoes outside the door; in fact we only had to take off our shoes if we wanted to walk on the carpets. However, we very much did want to walk on the carpets, and stepped off the marble foyer onto the most amazing assortment of carpets. As we walked reverently around, the Imam explained that when they restored the mosque in the 1970's, they put a call out to the townspeople of Selçuk to donate carpets for the floor. The townspeople sure pulled through, as there was a most interesting and motley assortment of carpets all over the floor: no acres of broadloom here, instead there were carpets of lurid greens beside a cream with the lustre of silk, shiny nylon next to glossy wool, fresh dyes next to carpets with perfect wear marks (here knees, there a lesser imprint of devoted forehead).
After the French left in a flurry of removed headscarves and "au revoirs" we walked around again, enjoying the tranquility and chatting with Mustapha, the imam, who showed us pictures from a photo album of the mosque in disrepair and dis-roof. He had been imam since it was opened and was now past fifty (though he looked not much older than us). When we asked if we could give a donation, Mustapha advised that we could buy a book from his little display, and the proceeds would go to the upkeep of the Isa Bey. We picked out a Qu'uran, as we had wanted to buy one in Turkey anyway. He also picked out a card, and wrote our names on it in beautiful arabic script, with the date, the location (Selçuk), and a blessing. He gave it to us to tuck into our Qu'uran, making it clear that this was a gift (even though we suspected he usually charged for such things). An even better gift was his invitation to return in the evening, before evening prayers, as the the lights would be turned on and we would be able to see the interior more clearly than in the slight gloom.
Since we now had somewhere to be at 6:25pm, as evening prayers would be about 6:40pm, we thought we'd make the most of the last of the afternoon by taking a quick look at what was once one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. Getting to the leftovers of the Temple of Artemis took us straight out of the Isa Bey and down the street away from the Hotel Bella. We walked down the back street, past gates that were once painted bright colours, and a whole pack of kedi eating fish skeletons that were being thrown onto the cobblestones from a busy looking restaurant. When we reached the busy road that would have led to Ephesus, we turned right and walked down a beautiful avenue, under broad-branched trees. It was a little less serene when we walked past an army outpost with guards armed with machine guns... still not used to that!
We also passed some funny metal scuplture-y looking things that turned out to be public exercise machines. Weird!
A short walk later, we passed the entrance to the Temple of Artemis, and didn't even notice. In our defense, it's not very spectacular. At all. When we realized our error and backtracked the few metres to the entrance, we simply walked down the grassy road which was littered with broken glass and garbage, to the very uninspiring Post of Artemis. All that was left was a green space that showed a vaguely rectangular, sunken form, with one lone pillar that was more than half concrete. Obviously the Temple's stone had been looted in order to make other spectacular structures: the Basilica of St. John, the Citadel overlooking the town, and even our most beloved Isa Bey Camii. In some ways it was a shame, and in other ways understandable. The only regret I had was walking all that way to look at the Big Boring Post of Artemis.
We walked back into the town centre for dinner, which we found at the (L.P.) recommended 'Old House' restaurant. We ate in a beautiful little courtyard filled with orange trees which were full of crows. It being the gloaming-time, the crows were flocking, and apparently they were flocking in town, rather than up at the Basilica. In any case, the food was excellent, tasty and filling, and we had a floor show in the form of the restauranteur madly shaking the crows out of his trees.
Since we had an hour to kill before our date with the imam, we stopped by a random store and bought a bright red, not-too-flimsy suitcase to carry our treasures to Pammukale the next day. We also stopped by and saw Marco again. He was sitting on pillows out front of the carpet store with his brother, who was making big kuzu eyes at a very pretty blonde German girl called Marlena and playing backgammon.
We hung out for a bit before dropping our suitcase at the hotel and walking back up over the hill to the Isa Bey, where we were greeted warmly by Mustapha, and shown into the lovely, lovely mosque. Mustapha Bey was right: it was even nicer with the lights on and we were able to take lots of photos of the vivid carpets and the timber-arched ceiling. I realized a few minutes into our visit that I hadn't pulled my headscarf up; I immediately did so, apologizing and embarrassed again, and Mustpaha reached over to touch my chest over my heart and said "it's ok. Allah knows." Allah knew what? that I was contrite? That I'm not Muslim? That my intention was to be respectful but my memory prevented me? It didn't matter; I felt comforted and honoured at the same time.
As the amplified sounds of the muzzein drifted in from a distant minaret, Steve and I started walking to the door. Mustapha stopped us with a raised hand and told us that Isa Bey wasn't a major mosque and only three men had come to pray that night, and further, he had spoken to the men and they had agreed that we could stay. Pardon me? We had never spoken to a tourist who was invited to listen to prayers inside a mosque before. We weren't quite sure if Mustapaha said we could take photos or not, so we sat and leaned against a pillar, cameras at our side, and listened to the singing of the sura. The prayers were sung by an older man in a white coat, and it was beautiful: heart-breakingly, jaw droppingly, indescribably, life-changingly beautiful. The singing and the refrain, the practiced grace of the men as they bent and knelt to pray, the echoes ringing from high on the venerable stone walls: magical.
We felt incredibly privileged to be present in that place at that time.
After the prayers were done, Mustapha introduced us to the man who sang the sura: he was a retired imam, the most famous in those parts, and he had sung a specific sura about Mary and Joseph because we, newlyweds, were present. Mustapha marked in our Qu'uran the passage that was sung for us. If we could have felt more honoured in that moment, we would have been, but we were full to the brim with acknowledgement of our good fortune.
Walking back over the little hill to town, we couldn't stop talking about our experience at the Isa Bey. Why us? What did we do to deserve such a special experience? I recalled Mustapha reaching out a finger to Steve's Turkey shirt and saying he liked it... but surely a tshirt wouldn't have been the reason? I asked for tickets, which was pretty gauche, but I apologized, which might have redeemed us? We took off our shoes, we brought our own headscarf... maybe it was simply that he knew that Allah knew that we'd be receptive and reverent in that moment. Whatever the reason, we felt very blessed.
The night was yet early, and we were wired after our experience, so we headed back to the carpet shop where we sat on the carpets at the front of the store and watched Marco's brother let Marlena win at backgammon. We were joined by a pack of American tourists -- missionaries, actually -- who were VERY low key and respectful. We half-jokingly offered them some of our Canadian flag pins to attach to their lapels, but they declined. Most Turks recognize that an American who is traveling in Turkey, especially independent travel, didn't vote for Bush, and are respectful in turn.
Mind you, I couldn't tell you the Turkish words for "where are you from" but by the second week I knew exactly when they were being spoken to me: sometimes in a friendly fashion, sometimes curious, sometimes a little hostile. Whenever I replied "Kanada", the expressions (no matter what they had started as) turned happy and I would be patted on the shoulder, smiled at, and treated to a flood of incomprehensible Turkish. I'm not sure how happy I would have been having to say "USA" in response to that question.
The conversation over tea and sweets was a fascinating mix of polite small-talk and very intellectual discourse on the nature of travel, the benefits of independent 'culture' travel, terrorism and sovereignty. With the US having decreed that Turkey should not go into northern Iraq to go after the PKK, and Turkey (understandably) ignoring them, sitting with a few Kurdish men, a German, and some Americans made for a lively and well-considered conversation.
The conversation over tea and sweets was a fascinating mix of polite small-talk and very intellectual discourse on the nature of travel, the benefits of independent 'culture' travel, terrorism and sovereignty. With the US having decreed that Turkey should not go into northern Iraq to go after the PKK, and Turkey (understandably) ignoring them, sitting with a few Kurdish men, a German, and some Americans made for a lively and well-considered conversation.
We felt very much at home with this group of people, and honestly felt as though we made some fast friends at the Van carpet shop. Marco told us that the next time we came to Turkey, we must go to Lake Van and stay with his family. He even offered us one of his mother's Van cats, the white ones with one blue eye and one green eye. I actually think they're considered a cultural artifact and not eligible for export, but it was kind of him to offer!
At one point, a drunk man stood in the square yelling something in Turkish, and Marco's brother stood up and yelled back at him: I didn't understand the words but the message was clear: f*ck off! We realized it was the first time we had seen a drunk person in Turkey. Marco's brother explained that in Turkey, if someone has a 'problem' like that, their family would take care of them and you wouldn't really see it in public. Someone who has no family, or doesn't have the support of their family, is considered more abhorrent than just a drunk. Interesting!
In order to give his brother a chance with the pretty Marlena, Marco did a slightly spooky trick on her which he called the 'magic carpet'. She was a good sport, but the brother didn't really have a chance, even after they fumbled through a Kurdish folk dance to some rather awful Kurdish pop on the radio, and even though he was cute. It was late when we said our goodbyes, promised to visit again, and walked back to the hotel.
At one point, a drunk man stood in the square yelling something in Turkish, and Marco's brother stood up and yelled back at him: I didn't understand the words but the message was clear: f*ck off! We realized it was the first time we had seen a drunk person in Turkey. Marco's brother explained that in Turkey, if someone has a 'problem' like that, their family would take care of them and you wouldn't really see it in public. Someone who has no family, or doesn't have the support of their family, is considered more abhorrent than just a drunk. Interesting!
In order to give his brother a chance with the pretty Marlena, Marco did a slightly spooky trick on her which he called the 'magic carpet'. She was a good sport, but the brother didn't really have a chance, even after they fumbled through a Kurdish folk dance to some rather awful Kurdish pop on the radio, and even though he was cute. It was late when we said our goodbyes, promised to visit again, and walked back to the hotel.
Back at the Bella, I went to our room to get the computer before joining Steve on the terrace, where I found him with a sleepy-eyed Nazmi, smoking a large and rather wonderful nargileh (hookah). The smell of the smoke was divine, and when pressed for the second time to take a puff, I relented and, for the first time in my life, put lips to smoking-device. Yes, that's right -- the first time. I thought Steve was going to fall right off the divan in shock, but when in Turkey... it was surprisingly nice and I didn't even cough up a lung. Actually, it was VERY nice and I immediately suggested to Steve that we should buy a nargileh to take home. He took one look at me and absolutely refused, which is probably for the best as apparently I was promptly addicted. Maybe it was the chocolate-apricot flavoured tobacco, or the romantic Orient-Express-ness of it all, or having had a sura sung to us in the Isa Bey, but sitting on a rooftop terrace in front of a fireplace smoking a nargileh felt like the perfect end to a superlative day.
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