Where turquoise has a different meaning—Istanbul

It was on the last day of my trip to Istanbul that I discovered quite why I had developed such a powerful bond with the city. The country is called Turkey, and the signature colour—if you go by the glazed tiles and the evil eye talisman—is blue. The French called it “blue of the Turks” or, as you would say it in French, “turquoise”. It happens that my favourite colour is turquoise. And in Istanbul, there was plenty of it in the landscape. The sea, for example, was unalloyed turquoise. But to tell you what sea it was is to reveal the very location of the city, perched famously between Europe and Asia: the westernmost point of Asia and the easternmost point of Europe. On one side is the Sea of Marmara; on the other is the Black Sea. Joining them both is the Bosphorus; while to the south is the Aegean Sea that continues southwards as the Mediterranean Sea. That’s quite a lot of water, and the sprawling city lies across hills that dip into sparkling turquoise waters that funnel up the breeze that keeps the city refreshed. Considering that it was the capital variously of the Romans, Greeks and Ottomans, it has a style that is a synthesis of all these, woven into a whole that is identifiably Turkish. “That Istanbul famously straddles two continents is a symbol of something else: its ability to be in two points in time simultaneously or to occupy two opposite ends of the social spectrum,” Gulgun (a local friend) tells me. We were sitting at a bakery that had exactly two tables on the pavement, between a dry cleaner’s shop and an automobile work-shop in the uber traditional Fatih area. Gulgun with her trademark short dress and hand-rolled cigarettes stood out in the area; other ladies wore burqas. Nothing gave my friend more satisfaction than shocking those around her. I was shocked too—at the quality of the coffee before us. The delicate thimble-sized cups were mismatched and ever so slightly grimy, yes, but the coffee in them was pure elixir. Gulgun said that it was because of the low temperature at which the water and coffee powder was heated. We had connected over a Turkish music site a few months before my trip and had formed a close bond. It was she who sent me scurrying to all the most unlikely places in her city—corners that I would have never got to see on my own. Rather tumbledown Fatih where Islam was proudly worn like a badge, was just one example. Still, I did get to clamber onto the tourist treadmill, much to Gulgun’s disapproval. My trip to the Dolmabahce Palace confirmed all that I felt about Turkish style: Bohemian and Baccarat crystal vases and chandeliers, the trappings of wealth and style that were from Europe and a setting by the Bosphorus in gardens that could only have been in had a quality of being a natural part of anywhere in the world. I found that intriguing even while I stared goggle-eyed at the lavish wealth displayed tastefully in front of me. Neither museum allowed photography, so I tried frantically to capture the image of pure gold sword sheaths and emerald casks of the Topkapi in my mind’s eye. What appealed to my sensibilities the most was that while I viewed the treasures of the Muslim world and heard the 24x7 recitation of the Quran by a team of young men, outside church-bells pealed. That was the true Istanbul spirit! The vast kitchens of both palaces have sections for the making of sweets. It is a sign of how seriously the city has always taken its confectionery. I walked around the Eminonu district—I loved it for its slightly rakish air, the squealing seagulls, the bobbing boats and the presence of the New Mosque and the Spice Market side by side. A short walk uphill was the Mecca of confectionery: Hafiz Mustafa on Hamidiye Caddesi (Caddesi means road). Once you stepped in, you are guaranteed to go stark staring mad trying to decide what to order from sesame halva, dozens of varieties of locum (the local name for Turkish delight) and countless types of baklava, each more irresistible than the last. There’s a whole universe out there, which goes under the heading of Turkish cuisine. There are the seafood restaurants of the little pedestrianized lanes off Istiklal Caddesi. Tables with red and white checked tablecloths dot the pavement and the menus are short with each restaurant boasting of a few specialities. Except in the specifically seafood restaurants, you order a panoply of cold starters, most of them vegetarian. Usually only the main course has an element of meat—beef, lamb or chicken. You cannot do better than the street-side doner kebap (like they say) made on a vertical rotating spit. And Turkey is one country that really is vegetarian-friendly: every last restaurant has stewed vegetables, including the giant green chili that is packed with flavour but not with pungency. If there was one aspect of the city that outshone the cuisine and the sight-seeing, it was the shopping. Or rather, for nobody can accuse me of being a shopaholic, the window shopping. Forget modern all glass malls. In the centuries old Covered Market, which, for all practical purposes was a mall, had over one thousand shops. Some of these, it has to be said, are doner kebap stalls and kiosks selling the ubiquitous evil eye talisman. Others are in-your-face carpet sellers and still others are purveyors of impossibly exotic mustbuys, like the solemn gentleman who sold me an intricate work of calligraphy. “Where has it been done?” I ask breathlessly. “In India”, he replies, supremely unconscious of the fact that I come from there. “In a city called Jaipur.” As my heart sank to my boots, the kindly old man realised he had made a faux pas and proceeded to cheer up with a story about how the colour turquoise acquired its name. That was when I had my Istanbul moment.