I’m at the airport in Skopje, Macedonia, waiting for a flight to Istanbul (a short hop away). In the lounge are dozens of Turkish women, all covered up except for their faces. They are wearing headscarves and other drapery, but you can see their faces.
Okay, I’m gonna let it all hang out. I know you don’t come to me for political correctness.
What is the point of headscarves, burkas, etc.? Is it to ward off the gaze of men, to disguise physical attractiveness (or the lack of it)? Because if it is, it’s not working. I mean, the headscarves and related drapery aren’t enough.
Among these Turks, you can tell who’s pretty and who’s . . . less so. They might as well be wearing bikinis.
Do you know what I mean? Thank heaven no one reads the Internet, so I can get away with this stuff . . .
My final point, my ultimate message: If you want to stymie the sexual gaze of men, you have to go whole hog — full burka.
Okay, don’t worry, the rest of this journal will be more normal (I think).
‐By this point, I’ve taken several Turkish Airlines flights. They have a charming habit. The pilots and attendants don’t say, “Ladies and gentlemen.” They say, “Ladies, gentlemen, and dear children.” Not just children, but “dear children.” Wonderful.
‐On your tray, you’re apt to get a little card saying that no pork products have been used. There’s an X through the image of a pig.
I think, “The poor pig. He must be insulted. Why must he be verboten? Doesn’t the world know how awesome pork chops, pulled pork, and bacon are?” Then I think, “The pig should be relieved . . .”
‐Not since pre-euro Italy have I had liras in my pocket. But in Turkey, they have liras . . .
‐I’m going to quote you a desk clerk at a hotel — a wonderfully intelligent and articulate guy. He expects to leave Turkey at some point. “Coming to America?” I ask. He says, “America’s my third choice. The first is either Canada or Australia. They have better social care there. America is more an opportunity society, and if you work hard, you’ll be rewarded. I’m a hard worker, and so’s my fiancée, but . . .”
I don’t say anything. But I find those comments very interesting.
‐He is mercifully free of political correctness. I could weep for the candor. On the subject of Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar, he says, “A half-hour should be enough for you. A woman could spend several hours there, and keep going back. But for us men, a half-hour’s plenty.”
So, so true. I might reduce that to 15 minutes.
‐The Grand Bazaar is interesting, of course, but, at this point, not so different from a mall back home. Many of the same products.
When it comes to bazaars, you can’t beat Marrakech’s, in my experience — a throwback to a peculiar and wild era.
‐Throughout Istanbul, you find signs from the municipal government: “We are here for your comfort and tranquility.” Really? Well, thanks . . .
‐One of their major mosques is the New Mosque, built in the first half of the 17th century. I’m reminded of New College, Oxford, established in 1379.
‐In the Arab world, you see men on the street holding hands. They are friends, or relatives. It can seem jolting to the Western eye. (Have I just committed “hate speech”? Oh, well.) In Istanbul, I see men, not holding hands, but with their arms linked.
‐Lots of women are covered, of course, but lots of women aren’t. And you see young couples necking, the way they always do, everywhere.
‐A cart sells Ottoman Ice Cream. Hmmm, really? What’s Ottoman about it? Anyway, never turn up your nose at ice cream . . .
‐All universities are beautiful, or most of them are — or many of them are. In any case, Istanbul University is really beautiful.
And a university ought to be beautiful, I think. It ought to inspire. It ought to reflect order, harmony, and maybe grandeur. It should be a product of knowledge — high knowledge — and a spur to it.
The physical environment matters, I think.
‐It is very hard to walk around the tourist areas. Because hordes of men — only men — want to “help” you. They want to “guide” you, especially to their shops, or someone’s shop. They want your money. If you shake one off, there’ll be another, ten yards away.
I don’t begrudge people their efforts to make a living, especially when opportunities are few. But these people are nuisances, pests. They will not let you be. They’ll allow you no peace. They’re worse than flies at a picnic. They mar a visit to Istanbul.
Throughout the world, I have seen people underemployed, denied opportunity — reduced to pestering tourists. They are unable to take advantage of their talents. They are unable to act, in a productive way, on their drive. They are thwarted. What a shame, what a waste, what an outrage.
‐In order to get you to stop — in order to get you to break your stride — these harassers in Istanbul will call out, “You dropped something!” Liars, scoundrels. Bastards.
‐The shoeshine guys have a trick. A swindle. They’ll contrive to walk ahead of you, and then drop a brush. You pick it up for them, and they are extravagantly grateful. They insist on giving you a shine, as a way to repay you for your courtesy. You feel you have no choice. Then they importunately — finally belligerently — hit you up for money.
I see them do this on street after street. They take advantage of kindhearted foreigners, who are loath to give offense.
It reminds me of that movie guy, Borat, who took advantage of decent Americans and made them look ridiculous.
Some people are clever, some people are simply decent. And the decent people are always made to feel bad about being tricked by the clever.
To hell with clever people . . .
‐I see something amazing on a bridge over the river: fishermen. There’s nothing so amazing about that. It’s just that they are very close together, side by side, pretty much touching elbows. It’s amazing that their lines don’t get tangled. And that they all have success, to some degree. Or do they? They must, else they wouldn’t come back, to cast again.
‐As a conservative, I spend half my life railing against OSHA, the EPA, a web of government regulations. And when I go abroad, I often think something like this: “Gee. Shouldn’t there be a railing on this set of stairs? The stairs are awfully tricky . . .”
‐Everywhere, big-city kids are the same. Savvy, bold. A significant contrast with country kids.
‐I meet a waiter who spent some time in America: in Ogunquit, Maine; Cape Code in Massachusetts; and Biloxi, Miss. What a range of accents he heard!
He went to Maine from his native Istanbul in April, having packed shorts, flip flops, and so on. When he arrived, there was snow on the ground. The first thing he did, the next day, was buy winter clothes.
I said, “Biloxi must have been awfully hot in the summer.” He said, kind of gaspingly, “You can’t breathe!”
When he returned to Istanbul — his native city, mind you — he found it too crowded, too jostling. He noticed this right at the airport. “Who are these people? What is this city?” He had become accustomed to a different kind of life.
‐The ticket windows at the Topkapi Palace are to open at 9 a.m. I’m hoping they will open by 9:15. Actually, they open at 9 on the button, as though attached to a satellite high in the sky. Extraordinary.
‐Many years ago, I heard my colleague Christopher Caldwell say the following: “The least overrated place in America is the Grand Canyon; the most overrated place is Yankee Stadium.” Some things are what they’re cracked up to be; other things aren’t.
The Topkapi Palace has a big reputation. They say it’s must-see. That it is an unforgettable sight and experience. They’re right. The palace is one of the least overrated places I have ever been to. It is all it’s cracked up to be.
‐How many times have you heard this in your life? “In the East, they have palaces and treasures and sights that put the glory of the West to shame.” Mainly, this is BS, I’ve found. From Easterners, it is insecurity and pride, and from Westerners it is political correctness.
But the thought comes to me, “Topkapi makes Versailles look like a sh**house.” (That’s probably not true: I love Versailles. It is not overrated. But I have kind of a point . . .)
‐I’m amazed at the care that people took with the minutest object — a fork, say, or a cup. Someone cared to make it perfectly beautiful, and someone cared to own such an object.
‐You go through the Gate of Felicity. Who would not want to go through a gate of this name?
‐The room where the Sultan’s turbans were kept is better than some throne rooms I’ve seen.
‐Looking at a display of weapons, I think, “These are far too beautiful to kill with.”
‐All my life, I’ve seen security guards, in such places as the Louvre. For eons, they have been bored silly, just sitting there, or standing there, occasionally telling a visitor not to get too close to the Mona Lisa or something. Now, however, they have smartphones — which must pass the time more happily.
‐It used to be, some people were picture-takers. They brought cameras and took pictures. Now everyone has a camera on his phone, and we’re all picture-takers.
‐I don’t know if Islam calls its cantors cantors — but it has cantors, as in a man here at the palace who sings the Koran (I believe). He has cultivated an exceptional vocal evenness.
‐Speaking of music, some piano pieces go through my head, while I’m in Istanbul, and especially while I’m here at Topkapi. I think of Rachmaninoff’s Oriental Sketch. And Islamey (Balakirev).
‐I like seeing the abbreviations “B.C.” and “A.D.” They’re such a throwback. Now we pretty much have to say “BCE” and “CE,” so as not to be too Christian. Blech.
‐Everyone has his turn, I guess. The Egyptians had their turn — their period of world glory. The Greeks had their turn. The Romans. The Ottomans.
Will people be traipsing around the U.S. Capitol and the White House, being told by guides that this was once a great civilization, a great democratic civilization, to which people from all corners of the earth wanted to come, to be something called “American”?
I guess so.
‐Everyone says that Hagia Sophia — the church made into a mosque made into a museum — is a great sight. A can’t-miss, all-time sight. I trust them. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I am as un-wowed by Hagia Sophia as I was wowed by Topkapi.
Art Buchwald once perfected “The Six-Minute Louvre.” (“You take a sharp left at the Venus de Milo.”) I think of this, wandering around Hagia Sophia, trying to see and feel what I should. I put in more than six minutes, however. I figure I waited in line to get in for so long . . .
‐On the street, men shave those döner cylinders — those dripping lamb slabs — and they remind me of nothing so much as barbers, doing their shaving . . .
‐I can’t visit the Blue Mosque, because, during my available time, it’s closed for prayers. That is, it’s open for worshippers, but closed to mere visitors.
This is inconvenient for me, but I admire it: a working house of worship, rather than a quaint sight for tourists.
‐Earlier in this journal, I mentioned a hotel clerk. I’m going to introduce you to another one — who requests a little English lesson from me.
He wants to know how to say “foot” and “food” — how to distinguish between the two words. The difference between the two kinds of “oo” is not as obvious as a native speaker might think. Neither is the difference between a “t” ending and a “d” ending.
He also wants to work on “the” — how do you pronounce that “th,” which is different from the “th” that ends “math”?
That is something a native speaker would never think about, obviously. I figure out where my tongue is when I say the word “the.” I transmit this knowledge to the hotel clerk. His “the” comes out starting with a “v.” But soon it’s “the.” That’s a happy feeling.
He has an aim in life, a private aim: to read Shakespeare in the original. He says, “There are two ways to have an adventure: take a ship and go somewhere, or read. I read.”
A moving conversation, I have to say.
‐Years ago, I saw pictures of kids from Chechnya. There was something wrong with them, something weird about them. Their faces looked really, really old, and they were just little kids.
On the route to the airport, there are kids begging, going up to stopped cars. Their faces, too, look old — old before their time.
‐At the airport, the cigarette packs are a sight to behold. The warnings are in HUGE letters. (And they’re in English.) They say, “SMOKING KILLS.” And “SMOKERS DIE YOUNGER.” (There is one warning per pack, but there is a repertoire of warnings.) “SMOKING IS HIGHLY ADDICTIVE. DON’T START.” “SMOKING SERIOUSLY HARMS YOU AND OTHERS AROUND YOU.”
Man, the U.S. surgeon general could only dream of such stark and prominent warnings.
‐That’s a strange note to end on — smoking — but end I will, because I’m boarding. Thanks so much for joining me, ladies, gentlemen, and dear children.