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The Wedding of Hassan Fattah
Part Four: Let’s Get This Party Started!
In which we tour the Sultanahmet highlights, meet the Fattahs, dodge a shakedown at the Hamam, and scoop the good part out of the gills of fish.
(catch up quick on parts 1-3)
At some point that day, I noticed that they pull ice cream just like taffy in shop windows on Istiklal Cadessi. That night, I learned that Turkish ice cream does not melt, which has certain street sanitation and human digestion ramifications.
Two words: Bubble gum.
But let’s go back to the beginning of the day, my first full day in Istanbul. You may recall at the end of Part 3 that I had a problem on my hands—I was accosted by a menacing, Turkish-speaking individual in a deserted dead end street. Obviously, I got out alive. I was also unharmed. The man, as I described him last week, was apparently a junky. Sidestepping and out-walking him was not a problem. And I did so, with only a slight feint to throw him off, after a short, failed attempt to talk to him. He would have been dangerous, of course, if he had a weapon or friends, and I wasn’t sure he didn’t have either or both as I walked the 30 yards or so back to the wider streets and safety. During that rather brisk walk, he kept up pretty well and continued to proposition me with his smirk and strange hand signs. I left him laughing, finally, making a mental note to myself as I started to breathe normally again—keep the enchantment in check, schmuck. And drink more coffee. You’re in a strange city.
I went to the breakfast buffet at the hotel for the coffee, than back to my room. I was in fairly good condition—I loose whole nights of sleep often, especially when traveling. I was in the room for only a few minutes when the phone rang—yes, finally, I was talking to Hassan. He told me that he wanted me to come and meet the families at the Swissotel later, and that the men would be off to the Hamami for some male bonding early in the evening. He asked how I liked being in the Muslim world. With a mock-sardonic laugh, he said I was not to buy any carpets unless he or someone he designated was with me to do the haggling. “You got it,” I said, and in minutes I was in the back seat of a cab, saying something I never thought I’d hear myself say. “Topkapi Palace. And step on it.”
We turned off the Istiklal near the hotel and went down a steep, narrow road. Heavy swing to the Muslim World side of things. This was the “carpenters and woodworkers guild” block (big visit in Part 5 next week). It dropped down to a kind of 
mausoleum near the river. We turned onto the street to the Galata Bridge and crossed to Sultanahmet where most of the big sites to visit are located—Topkapi, the Blue Mosque, the Haghia Sophia, and the covered market. I had all morning and most of the after noon and my sketchbook to myself.
Sultanahmet is flatter than Beyoglu, and more crowded, its streets lined with open shops and outdoor markets. There are ancient parks and monuments and big, magnificent, minaret-rocketed mosques. The colors all around are orange-whites, grays and blues. The driver crossed the mall between the Blue Mosque and Haghia Sophia and took me to a drop-off point near the palace. Getting out of the cab, I was circled by guides, government–licensed guides wearing photo I.D.s around their necks. They issued stern warnings about how much I’d miss if I were not given a proper tour. I got away from them, but a non-I.D.-wearing young gentleman followed me. He told me he was practicing to be an English-speaking guide and would like to give me a free tour. He was well dressed and polite. I was suspicious, of course, and non-committal. But he seemed quite harmless, and we were in a crowded tourist area in the middle of the morning, so I didn’t demand that he buzz off. In fact, I got a marvelous tour until we got the Blue Mosque and he tried to get me to buy a carpet from his uncle. He stopped the polite routine when I demurred.
The Blue Mosque was built between 1609 and 1616 in an attempt on the part of Sultan Ahmet I, for whom the neighborhood is named, to take on the Haghia Sofia architecturally. It’s much prettier and more crystalline in 
structure than the Haghia, featuring bubbling domes that suggest the harmony of the spheres. Ultimately it falls short of the Haghia in my estimate, but it outclasses most of the beautiful mosques I saw on the trip. It has a celestial aspect that makes it beautiful, but somehow unapproachable, thus well short of sublime.
They make you take your shoes off before going inside, as they do at any mosque. They don’t at the Haghia, even though that formerly Christian church is now a Muslim religious site. Inside, the Blue Mosque is a tiled vault with arched windows and other portals that provide an ethereal light. The feeling was truly heavenly as I walked about on carpets wearing socks.
The sketch that I did of the Blue Mosque after I left has the lightest touch of any drawing I’ve ever done. I might have been a bit tentative about balancing all the domes and minarets properly, but I do think I was heavily influenced by the celestial aspects of the place as well.
From there I went to Topkapi, accosted along the way by one or two other carpet men who skipped the polite round and said bad things about Americans when I blew them off. There really were only one or two such incidents, however. (I did a
lot of traveling in 2004—Amsterdam, London, Paris, and Brussels—and I found that while people generally despised the Bush Administration, they were still friendly to American travelers.)
Topkapi was built in 1453 when Sultan Mehmet the Conqueror took Constantinople. It remained the Sultan’s residence until the late 19th century. It is a network of walled spaces sided with important institutions and buildings—the mint, the armory, the hospital, the bakery, and, of course, the harem. It affords several knockout views of the Bosphorus, Asia to the right, and Beyoglu to the left. I did another sketch.
Most of the buildings are separate museums. In one, the armory, I think, there was a man singing prayers in a glass booth—he looked like a disc jockey on mic. When I tried to sk
etch him, he broke from his reveries to give me a rather stern look. Not knowing the protocols, I decided not to push it. I went to the Haghia Sophia.
The Haghia Sophia was purportedly built by Constantine in 325. Little of the original structure remains, of course, but what’s there is old and goliath. It is more of this earth than the Blue Mosque—a shaggy mammoth cathedral. It is not a hollow dome inside. It is a maze. There is plenty of artwo
rk, including the famous mosaic mural of Jesus, Mary and St. John the Baptist.
I went back to the mall and sketched the Haghia Sofia. Surrounded by retrofit minarets, it has a pinkish-orange color that reminded me of old Spanish churches I’ve seen in Florida and California. All around the mall, The famous juice vendors in their striped pantaloons and fezzes stooped
to pour cherry juice from the elaborate vessels strapped to their backs. People sold wooden flutes and recorders beside the bar-b-qued corn on the cob carts.
I spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon in Sultanahmet, passing quickly through the overwhelming covered market. I’d come back when I had more time.
Later That afternoon, as instructed, I took a cab to the Swissotel, which, despite a certain desk clerk’s assertions the previous night, was awash with Hassan’s family and friends. I was walked around the lobby, introduced by Hassan’s cousin as Hassan’s friend from New York. He was off by one state, but I went along for the ride—I did work with Hassan in the city.
Layla’s family was interesting. Very sophisticated folk, some of whom had only been able to travel internationally for the last few months—they were Iraqis and could not get passports when Saddam was in power. Most lived in England.
Hassan, who told me when I walked in that he was in hot water with Layla over some flummox 
with the DJ for the reception Friday night, finally worked things out, ran over and grabbed me, and marched me out the door, all smiles and “finally-we-get-some-time-together-without-these-women.”
We got into the cab, and headed to the Galatasaray Hamam. Hassan had one of his “glamour profession” moments during the ride—he actually showed me that he’d received an e-mail from Judith Miller, praising his work in Baghdad up and down the block. In hindsight, such praise seems kind of strange coming from her. But, Hassan wasn’t at the Times yet, so she didn’t have to throw him the sharp elbows.
The Haman, located on a side street near my hotel, is your typical 200-year-old Turkish bath—a domed, sepia stone building, sunlit through a series of round portals. When we went in, the masseurs lined up in an anteroom, all wearing the uniform plaid oran
ge towel. An elder gentleman was our host—he wore more clothing. He took an immediate liking to me, for some reason, running up behind me and grabbing me, more or less trying to climb up, piggy-back style. He and the masseur line laughed at whatever he was hollering. Hassan was grinning: “He likes you, Rikki.”
People were coming at from every direction in this country.
Thus disoriented, I took in the short spiel delivered to our group by my new admirer. No one understood him. We took off our shoes and followed the masseur line to curtained stalls in which we undressed and wrapped the plaid towels around ourselves. I did this and sat on the cot in the stall. Hassan came by and poked in his head—“C’mon Rikki!”
We went into the big vaulted bath area with the marble slabs on which we’d be massaged. It was a sauna, essentially, but the atmosphere is quite unique. One of the best descriptions I’ve ever heard, in fact, is a soundscape on a CD the band Wilco put out with a book called The Wilco Book. It’s called Hamami—the brainstorm of the drummer who visited a Hamam in Turkey and led the band in reproducing the sounds he heard inside. Echoes in water. Sound that pulls off being wet light. It’s really incredible, and I wish I knew how to put a sound clip up. I don’t. There is also a very good film by Ferzan Ozpetek called Steam (Hamam) that gets the baths and the whole city right.
First we sat against the wall, got sweaty, and dumped water fetched in wooden bowls from ornate wall fountains over our head. I sat with Hassan and a cousin of his from Baghdad, a really sweet guy who explained to me a litt
le bit about life in that city in the summer of 2004. Basically, he said that people were thankful that Saddam was ousted, but they hated the occupation. Why, I asked. Abu Ghraib, he said.
One by one we lay on the slab when called by one of the big masseurs. One pointed to me finally—“you”. I lay on my stomach with nothing but a towel between me and the marble. Using a big yellow sponge, he covered me in oil soap that made mounds of white bubbles. Then he yanked, tossed, and beat the crap out of me. And it felt great! I realized this was a kind of paleo-chiropractics, an ancient ritual that my masseur had down pat. My back cracked a lot on a marble slab. No problem. The only thing that was kind of a problem was that he was shamelessly shaking me down for a tip: “Good Mass-ahj, Good Money!”
Finally, in what I though amounted to ritual humiliation, our group was lined up sitting against the wall again as a couple of the big ones came over and beat us with soapy sponges. In remember one of them had an enormous b
elly and a navel that looked like a tied-off fire hose. They all had enormous bellies, in fact. Most had black hair cut in bangs and black mustaches.
The old guy led us back to the stalls and told us to sleep.
After about five minutes of laying on my back and looking at the ceiling, I got dressed like everyone else in the party, and went back to the anteroom. They wanted “good money” very badly (of course we’d already paid and plus tipped them) . There was yelling and the biggest one actually took a few steps toward us. Suddenly Hassan, stopping me from giving the guy millions of lire, began shouting him down in Arabic—Hassan doesn’t speak Turkish, and I’m not sure the masseur spoke the language Hassan was using. But the masseur off. I remember the group of us running into the alley. We went off to find a bar on the other side of Istiklal Cadessi.
My long gray hair totally sproinged, I sat with Hassan and his friends and had a few cold beers at a small, nondescript outdoor cafe. Hassan pointed to one of his friends, and asked me to guess the man’s age. The man grinned. I said I thought he was in his 60s. He was about 45. He explained that he looked a lot older because of the eight years he spent in an Iranian prison during the Iran-Iraq war in the eighties. During that time, his family assumed he was dead. Few of the guests had that kind of a back story. And few had as much fun as this man did dancing at the parties that followed that week.
Back at the hotel we met two of Hassan’s brother, Ali and Mohammad, and his cousin. I forget her name, but I remember that she is a private detective in Geneva and her mother looks like Lauren Bacall. We’ll call her Sharin. We decided to have dinner at a place called Cicek Pasaji or Flower Passage, which is off the Itstiklal near my hotel. It is a terraced alley with a vaulted ceiling and rows of rest
aurants. Mohammad could not join us, but another of Hassan’s cousins, Omar, came along. Omar added great color. He was tall, with a shaved head. Later in the week he’d go to the wedding reception wearing an Easter green Nehru jacket and glasses with dark black rims–very Austin Powers.
We had some great fish. Ali showed me how to scoop the best part out of the gills–he complementing the chef for keeping the heads on with the gills in good shape. We had a lively conversation about the city and parties planned for the week—something about a dinner on a Bosphorus boat cruise the next night, and the formal reception the night after at a palace that has been converted to a banquet hall. Sharin expressed a detective’s interest in two Indian women from Australia whom she referred to as the Ozzes. Hassan had met one of them in New York.
After eating, we filed back into the bustling Istiklal. “Let’s walk our date back to his hotel,” said Hassan, referring to me. Off we went like a party to the Emerald City. On the way, Sharin insisted we all spring for ice cream. The chewing gum-like crap that passes for ice cream in Istanbul is, truly, the worst food I’ve ever eaten. Almost all the food I ate in Istanbul was great, and I wish I had more. But the ice cream had to go–I threw mine away when Sharin and Omar were looking in a shop window. Sharin probably noticed. She’s a detective.
We got to the Richmond Hotel about midnight. Hassan and the others said good night, and I said “call me,” playing up the date thing. Sharin was smoking a cigarette. “Don’t call us,” she said, exhaling the smoke of intrigue. “We’ll call you.” We all laughed and said good night.
It occurred to me as my head hit the pillow that I had no real idea of what was going on the next day.
______________
Next Week:
The Stark Hand
of Commerce
Loo-loo-loo-loo-loo-
loo-loo-loo-loo-loo-
loo-loo-loo-loo-loo!
Blue Bosphorus
_____________
The painting’s progress:
We’re going with
yellow–problem?
_____________
Photos top to bottom
Boosting the Ethereal: Mosque lights*
Unguided tour: Streets of Sultanahmet *
Harmony: Domes and minarets of the Blue Mosque
Harem?: Turn left at the mint
Goliath: Haghia Sophia
Haghia Mosaic: Christ, Mary, and John
The inner vault: Inside the Haghia Sophia
Asian Prospect: Lobby of the Swissotel
Painted From Scarred Memory: Hamami
Fountain: At the Turkish Bath
Masseur Line: “Good money”
Dinner with the Detective: Cicek Pasaji
* Photos by Dick Osseman
see the pilot on the screen fall out of his chair. We’re racing down the runway with no brakes. The navigator reaches over and pulls him up, but he falls down again….”
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Georges Rouault 
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