Lunch at the Palace by the Sea

Saturday seemed like the perfect day for lunch at a palace. So I had lunch at a palace.

One of countless cool things I've discovered about Istanbul is that you can have lunch at Ottoman palaces. As in, you wake up on a Saturday and think, "I'd like to have a palace lunch on the Black Sea today," and you do. I ate here - at the circa 1459 Topkapi Palace. Its walls and turrets and cavernous halls and passages jut out over the Bosphorus Strait toward the gaping mouth of the Black Sea. Looking at the picture above, you can see the part of the Konyali Restaurant where we ate and stared out over the salty sea.

What could be more luxurious and leisurely than a Saturday afternoon luncheon in a palace on the Black Sea? (Seriously. I'm so blessed. Sometimes I can hardly believe this is really my life.)

But it appears to be. Looking up, I see a corner of the castle. And over my left shoulder is a view of the Bosphorus Strait and the bridge connecting Europe and Asia....

... oops, and at the edge of the table the waiter's just arrived. He's dressed fancily and speaks formally, opening our menus and unfolding our napkins with a flourish. I feel underdressed and ridiculous ordering a Cola Light (no "Diet Coke" here). Oh well. On my carefully drafted list of 30 Things To Do Before I'm 30, drinking Diet Coke in 30 cities is goal #18.

Istanbul joins the list. Diet Coke? Check!

Now. What to order for lunch in an ancient palace on the Black Sea? Lamb, of course. (I love lamb and haven't eaten much of it since my 22nd birthday when I spent a week in Boston and ate nothing but lamb and beans.) The menu calls it "Stuffed Lamb" and it's 30 YTL. That's $24.25 US dollars. Gulp

It doesn't look so appealing, maybe, but it was good. Not what I expected, and certainly not a value meal, but good. Of course, I'm sure the surroundings had everything to do with it. I mean, nearly anything would taste Ina Garten-good in a palace by the sea on a beautiful Saturday, right?

It's my latest working theory anyway. Although maybe I should hit one other palace before I head home, just to be double sure. And I am headed home this week. I'll try to slip you some pictures of the actual palace sometime before I do....

Haghia Sophia

The Haghia Sophia in Istanbul. An ancient architectural treasure. It sent shivers up my spine. And not just because there's a noticable temperature drop inside its doors. Or because it's enormous. Or beautiful. Or in-laid with gold and ancient tile. No, its cold fingers walk up and down your spine because your feet are walking the very floor that emporers and kings and princes have walked for 1,500 years. That doorway you just passed through? So did Constantius. That door knocker you just gripped in your palm? It was made by Vikings during the Ottoman Empire.

This most extraordinary building (pronounced EYE-uh Sophia) was a cathedral for more than a thousand years. After the Turkish conquest, it spent the next five centuries as a Muslim mosque. It was completed in 558 A.D., and although parts of it have been damaged by earthquakes, fires and wars, it's still there. We can still walk its halls and examine its rooms.

Come on. I'll sneak you in. Let's check it out.

The seven churches mentioned in the New Testament - Ephesus, Smyrna, Antioch, etc. - were all in Turkey. So was Tarsus. Paul was from Tarsus. So are these doors. They are made of solid bronze and were brought to Istanbul in the 2nd century from a temple in Tarsus.

The Haghia Sophia as we see it today is the third church to stand on this site. The first was built in 360 A.D. but burnt down in 404. It was built and rebuilt until it became the structure we're seeing now. And it remained a Christian church until the Turks overtook the city after the fall of Constantinople. On the afternoon of May 29, 1453, Mahmet II strolled into the building and announced that Christianity was over and ordered the Haghia Sophia converted to a mosque. The Turks set about, right away, covering over all the Christians' art - including mosaics, paintings and crosses, and punched out all their stain-glass windows. Then they added their own Muslim touches - like the "pulpit" above. And this - a place for Muslims to wash before they pray. I never knew, until I went to a mosque this week, that Muslims pray five times a day, and must wash their hands, face, and feet before praying. That explains the fountains and faucets everwhere.

Not only do you have to be clean before entering a mosque, you can't wear your shoes inside, either. You have to take them off and walk the marble floor in your socks, carrying your shoes in a crumpled plastic bag over your shoulder. I try to imagine what would happen at my place of worship at home if we all suddenly decided to take off our shoes and walk around barefoot during church.

It's hilarious to me.

Since the Haghia Sophia is now museum and not a mosque, we can keep our shoes on. And speaking of it serving as a museum, sometime after the 1920s, excavations began to uncover the original Christian artwork that was covered or buried by centuries of Muslims.



This mosaic, completed in the 500s A.D., was altered several times throughout history, but now shows Mary, John the Baptist, and Jesus....



That's gold, folks. Real gold tiles. And so are some of these, which also depict Jesus:


As does that one, which beams Mary and baby Jesus down at you from the ceiling of a golden dome.

There's so much I want to tell you and show you about this spectacular place. But I'm not a history or religious scholar - Christian, Muslim or otherwise. If you're interested, you can read a cursory introduction to what you're viewing by clicking here. If you're interested.

All I can tell you for sure is that the Haghia Sophia is an important symbol in Christian history. It was built to glorify and worship God in thanks for the price Jesus paid for us on the cross.

Oh, the cross. Centuries of enemies have tried to destroy its message. To erase its significance. To squelch its power. Here they even tried to fill it with plaster and hide it from the world:

It didn't work. And it won't. The cross lives on. I think that's the silent, powerful message of the Haghia Sophia. I think that's the reason it affected me so deeply. I think that's the reason why this building may be one of my favorite on earth....

The Haghia Sophia. From Constantine to me, it's still a glowing testament to the fact that the message of the cross continues to change lives. I never anticipated such a powerful reminder of that in Turkey....

Market Day (Five Eggs, Daisies, and a Lunch)

I'm told that Thursday is market day in Istanbul. Sure enough, I hear a clamor on the street this morning and look off my balcony to see a rainbow of fruits and vegetables splayed on a table across the street.

After drinking two cups of coffee and taking a steaming hot bath, I venture out. I know how to say How much? and I don't speak Turkish, sorry. I also have the numbers one through five (bir, iki, üç, dört, beş) and my address written on a sheet of paper, just in case I get lost or get prices all mixed up. I know where the store is, and the now the bakery. I can see the entrance to the market. This will have to be enough to get me by.

Everything here is so beautiful. May I please stay here? I wish I understood more of the scenes around me though. I know, for instance, that people are talking to me and about me. I know people are trying to tell me where their melons come from. I know they're trying to tell me about their lives and their businesses and their families. I miss all of it. I listen and smile, half-heartedly, and repeat the same line a thousand times: I don't speak Turkish, sorry. And suddenly they smile - big toothy grins, and say - I promise - Duetsch?, and point to me.

No, no, American, I say. English.

And they grin again and say, Ah, American. New York?

And again I laugh and say, as hickish as I can, Texas.

And they smile back and say, Ah, Texas.

Everyone knows Texas. Even in Istanbul.

As I buy my tomatoes and pomegranates, they launch back into their floods of gnarled-sounding words and fluid gestures. And I stand there with 5 Turkish Lyra in my hands, waiting for a good time to motion for my bag and repeat, Ne kadar? How much?

The man selling the eggs was the worst but I loved his booth. He had hazelnuts and walnuts and pistachios and cracked one of each for me, holding the nut meats out to me in a dirty, weathered palm. I feared he was about to crack open one of his eggs, too, so I blurted out, beş! (I'll take five!) It was the highest number I could remember. So I bought walnuts and hazelnuts and five eggs. The eggs got their own bag and I cradled them in among the walnuts and wandered around, laughing about the Texan buying FIVE EGGS IN ISTANBUL, until I found a booth of daisies with their roots still on. Then my five eggs, walnuts, pomegranate, tomatoes, apples and daisies and I were on our way to the bakery. It was 1 PM and I was ready for something to eat.


Inside the bakery, I decided on a simit and a round, golden loaf that I thought had cheese in it. (I don't have a sense of smell. Have I ever told y'all that? I can't smell anything and never have. So unless I can taste it, I have no clue what unfamiliar food is.) Anyway, the cheese turned out to be orange rind, but I didn't know that until I sat everything down along a low wall just off the street and settled back against an iron gate to enjoy my lunch.


And as it turned out, I had company. She tried to pretend she was interested in traffic and birds, but she wasn't.



I threw her part of my orange bread and said every Turkish word I knew to her in a really sweet voice. Eventually she came close enough to sit awhile and have lunch with me, there just off the street in Istanbul.

I crumbled the rest of the bread and trailed it around for the cat and her bird friends to have later. And I have to admit, it was one of the best lunches I've had in awhile.

I think we may even have to do it all again tomorrow. Same time, same place.

The Stone Street in Anatolia

It's early Thursday here. At home in Texas my folks are just now eating Wednesday night's dinner. My body is in Istanbul but my internal clock is not. I'm too awake and far too tired to sleep. So I thought I'd show you a little place I wandered to today.

First off, the lady in black. This Muslim woman passed me as I was fiddling with my camera and waiting for a friend on an ancient stone street in Anatolia. Her steps were deliberate and heavy, almost as if she'd made those exact steps every day of her life and - if separated from her legs -her feet would somehow continue to set out on that path the very next day. There was something about her... something about the quiet way she walked... that intrigued me. I snapped her picture and followed.

I wanted to look up and take note of all the scenery - of street names and each passersby - but I didn't. One of the first things I was told when I arrived here was to be discreet. Don't stand out and don't be glaringly American, I was told. And don't look men in the eye. And NEVER smile at them.

What? I asked. Why in the world not?

They get movies and The O.C. over here, my friend said. The men watch it and think all American women are cheap and openly promiscuous. They'll take your eye contact and smiling as an invitation. They could follow you.

Right. Got it.

So I followed the woman, keeping my eyes down lest I should inadvertently nod and smile like I did at that guy on the boat on the Bosphorus Strait Tuesday. I kept my head down and followed the woman.

Eventually she turned a corner and left me standing in front of the most delicious thing I'd ever seen:

A Turkish bakery. I went in. It was warm and immaculate and bread and pastry lay stacked in every corner and basket and case. Golden loaves. Studded cookies. Crusty baguettes. Chewy rolls.

I couldn't keep from being in awe of the tiny shop on a twisting stone street high above the sea. Here it was, for hundreds of years, all tucked away and waiting for women in black and nosey Americans with rapidly-clicking cameras.

They had a bread slicer on the floor of the shop. It had long, sharp teeth that chewed clean lines through the bread without mushing it. It fascinated me. The whole bakery did. You saw the dough rising. You saw it go into and come out of the oven. You saw it stacked into baskets and onto wooden shelves. And you picked your loaf and handed it to a young man to slice and wrap in paper and hand back to you.

I wanted to take pictures of it all but was afraid to... was afraid I'd catch the bread slicer's eye and smile and look flushed by the warmth and steam of the bakery and have a real live Turkish problem on my hands.

So I didn't. I looked at trays of carbs instead.

But I did stay for a few minutes, breathing in the essence of the place and discreetly watching the baker roll puffy, risen dough into snakes of skinny baguettes before shoving them in the oven.

Oh, the oven!, I exclaimed to my friend later.

Yep, came the reply. Makes the story of Hansel and Gretel tricking that witch into climbing in the oven make a little more sense, doesn't it?

It does. It did. I think that's what I like the most about Istanbul. It's like you've read about this place your whole life - without even realizing it - and suddenly all the palaces and boats and kings and moats loom before you. And you can touch them. You can roam the castles and sail the water while the tales of your childhood come to life in front of your averted yet curious eyes.

And, of course, I partly have the woman in black to thank for that. She and her quiet, purposeful steps that called me out on that stone street in Anatolia. I know I'll always see her picture and remember this day....

(Edit: I re-read this post and suddenly remembered I became equally fascinated with a similar figure in a very different city last year. Istanbul's Lady in Black, meet the Monterrey Man.)

Postcard from Istanbul (Where the Sun and Water Were Born)

If one had but a single glance to give the world,

one should gaze on Istanbul.

-Alphonse de Lamartine

It's another world here. A place where, I'm sure, the sun and water were both born... the salt to cut out shores and seas and the sun to bleach stone and bake rock.

Istanbul is a land of sultans and crusaders. Of emperors and rulers. You feel that as you walk and ride the boats here. (The city forms a divide between Europe and Asia; I had coffee today on the Europe side and I'll sleep tonight in Asia.) But regardless of which continent your gait straddles, the sun bakes an awareness of the ancient into the soles of your feet - no matter where you walk. Today, on board a jaunt between the continents, the salty Black Sea air sprinkled me with a sense of history's mysteries. This place has a way of getting to you. It's fearfully and wonderfully romantic.

I'm on to the palaces and spectacular mosques and churches next. After that, the spice markets and Grand Bazaar. Will send you another blog postcard as I'm able.

Sending my love from half a world away,

Brin

She Wore Eyelashes to Istanbul

Something remarkably strange came over me during my preparations to leave for Turkey. I traded my black coat for an emerald-colored one, cut off my hair into a shoulder-skimming, Cate Blanchett-in-Charlotte Gray-style, and bought red lipstick. Red. I have very fair skin, green eyes and dark hair, so the red lips are shocking to me and on me. Quite a change from my usual decades-old standby of pink lip gloss.

I told myself that before I left the grand old USA I could spend $25 on frivolous thing(s) to haul along on the trip. No fuss, no frills were going into my suitcase... just jeans and things that could get dusty, my camera, a drawing pad, and a book. (And some other things. I'll tell you when I arrive home safely.) When I was a reporter, we were trained to pack everything into a carry-on. I still have a hard time filling an entire suitcase, which makes me a rare breed of woman, I know.

Anyway, I went to the store with $20. (I decided, as soon as the $25 budget was set, that I'd buy a yard of Japanese fabric to make handmade hankies. I'll show you later. Promise. They're adorable and I'll keep them always.) So I showed up with a crisp twenty and after circling the store for over an hour with only a tube of Vintage Wine lipstick in my hand, I settled on buying fake eyelashes.

Here I am - nearly 29 years old. A little lost... a little wounded... and definitely in that in-between place. But I'm also determined. And hopeful. And have a faith that won't be shaken.

She wore eyelashes to Istanbul. Let that be my first, heart-freeing story.

La Pollo Loco Makes Pollo alla Cacciatora

Roughly translated from Spanish and Italian, that's: The Crazy Chicken Makes Chicken for the Hunter.

Better explain, huh?

So it seems that abandoning one's life to flit about the world hunting new adventures requires a bit of seeing-to before hopping a plane. So that's what I am (and have) been doing: seeing to. Of course, there's the usual: laundry, bills, stopping the mail, finding a Freeman House sitter. Then there's the unusual: putting a new fuse in one of the heaters so it doesn't burn the house down... cracking ice trays filled with homemade chicken stock so no one inadvertently uses them in iced tea... and calling the garden guy who delivers... (well, I call him "Manure Man" if that helps)... to ask him to please hold off dumping his spring delivery in the yard while I'm gone....

Yep. I'm running about like the proverbial chicken with its head cut off. Only I think I'm an even crazier chicken.

I made it home late last night. Late, late, late. But I was hungry and wasn't tired and still needed to clean out the fridge. I put on comfy pajamas and padded to the kitchen and stood leaning on the refrigerator door thinking: bacon... tomato sauce... shredded chicken... half a bottle of white wine... I hate to throw this stuff out. Then I remembered that Chicken Cacciatora recipe of Nigella Lawson's, and Clean Out the Fridge Night soon became Make the Best Midnight Meal Ever Night.

Of course, those Italians and die hard Chicken Cacciatora lovers among you might be appalled by my Tex-ified, fridge cleaning version of this beloved dish. My apologies in advance; I don't usually keep fresh pancetta on hand, and my little town is a long way from Rome.

Pollo Loco's Pollo alla Cacciatora

1 tablespoon olive oil

5 slices bacon, chopped into 1 inch pieces
¼ cup chopped onion
2 cloves garlic, roughly chopped

1/2 cup white wine

1 14 oz. can chopped tomatoes
1 cup tomato sauce (I use V8, but don’t tell)

2 bay leaves
1 teaspoon fresh rosemary leaves, or ½ teaspoon dried rosemary

1/2 teaspoon celery salt

1 teaspoon sugar
2 cups cooked, shredded chicken

1 can cannellini (or garbanzo) beans

Heat oil over medium high heat. Add bacon and onions and cook until bacon is no longer pink. Add garlic and stir the pot and think for a minute or so.

Slosh in white wine, tomatoes and tomato sauce, seasonings, and sugar. Bring to a simmer. Drop in chicken, cover, and continue cooking over medium heat for 15 minutes. Uncover and add can of beans, if desired. (Cannellini beans are an optional ingredient in this dish. I accidentally opened garbanzo beans last night and loved them here. Use them or don’t. Whatever.) Return to simmer and cook for 5 more minutes or until beans are heated through.

Eat straight from the pot or ladle up with hot rice or noodles. (I stir cooked brown rice directly into mine so it’s a one bowl dinner.) Leftovers, if you’re lucky enough to have any, are great reheated.

So I leave you with my re-discovered favorite winter dinner and hopes that we'll meet here after Istanbul with new stories and pictures and words. Until my return, be cozy. And happy. Be cozily happy. I'll see you soon. -Brin

Looking For a New Monday Moment?

It's here. It's hidden. And it's heavy. Consider yourself warned!

The Turkish Tote

Still here, quietly knitting in bed in preparation for my Turkey trip. And yes, for those of you who've emailed, I am still going. In lieu of answering all the emails in my inbox, I'll publicly state that I did become somewhat concerned when - the minute my travel arrangements were confirmed - the Turks decided to launch a major offensive in Iraq. I guess you saw that too? Wonderful. On behalf of myself and my bum luck I'd like to formally apologize to the fine people of Turkey, for had I decided to travel instead to... oh... say... Switzerland, I'm sure it would be the Swiss launching an offensive instead of the Turks. Never mind that Switzerland hasn't been at war since 1815.

I do, again, apologize.

But today Istanbul and offensives are a world away and everything's all Switzerland-like here at Freeman House. In fact, I spent the better part of the early afternoon piled up in my butter soft bed listening to the breeze and the birds and knitting up the Nest Tote as designed by Elisa, an Italian knitter with a strong sense of ecological responsibility. (Do go and read Elisa's post about the bag here.) This project is a quick knit, I'm finding, and a fantastic foray into the world of lace knitting.

Since it's so lightweight and stretchy, this tote has been tapped to accompany me to Istanbul's Grand Bazaar, one of the world's oldest markets and a place I can't wait to explore. (Nothing worse than a heavy purse weighing you down in an international marketplace, right?) I'll try to remember to take a few shots of the tote after I've completed it but before I spill stuff all over it... which will have to be immediately upon completion.

So there we are. Consider yourself somewhat up to date! (I must be off... four dinner guests and a hot bowl of Potato Marbles are due at the table around 6 PM.) I hope to check in again before the tote and I travel. -Brin

Sweeping Realizations

It's moments like these you realize you're blessed. Blessed beyond belief. It's those quiet moments... those hushed, still seconds you're sweeping your bedroom floor and stop to examine the pile the straw has gathered...

... And once you do, you realize you've swept more plum-colored tulip petals than dirt. You've called out, from the dark corners of the room in which you sleep, scattered flower remnants - delicate as tissue and thin as air.

So you stand on the worn wooden floor that generations of women before you have swept and you examine your own pile and you realize... you realize you're blessed. Blessed beyond belief.

[Monday Update and Edit] ...and you also realize that with blessing comes opportunity. Responsibility. You have things to do. You have a life that's begging to take off. Knocks on doors that need answering. And so you sit on that wooden floor and realize that a blogging break would be... a relief? Yeah. A quiet relief. It would afford you time to realize new dreams and tackle new projects and see new places....

I'm saying goodbye for a little while. I guess that's what I'm trying to say. I'm taking some time off to poke around the house and garden and then I'm boarding a plane. I'm going to spend some time in Istanbul and London. I plan to stay up late and drink really strong coffee and go barefoot. I intend to get lost in new places and read up on new faces. I aim to take naps on trains and eat fruit from outdoor markets and say prayers from the steps of Constantinople. I long to take my friend up on an offer and sing Puccini with an international choir. I want to dance on an ancient cobblestone street and buy a foreign hat and squint as my sun sets on someone else's world.

In a word, I want to live.

Yes, I'm so blessed. My life's blessed beyond belief. And I don't want to waste a minute of it. But I'll be back in a few weeks. I'll be back with new stories and new pictures and new words. Besides, you're probably getting a bit bored with me anyhow, considering this has all come down to me showing you what I sweep off my floor. (Laugh) This will be a welcome break.

See you soon.

Warmly and always,

Brin