Diary of an Istanbul Tragic is written by kampunghouse. This article is part of a series of recollections of Istanbul, more of which can be found on the writer's website www.kampunghouse.wordpress.com
Aya Sofya (aka Haghia Sophia) on the left and the Sultanahmet Mosque (aka Blue Mosque) on the right.
It’s been almost a month since my first ever trip to Istanbul, a dream 13 years in the making and the culmination of a year’s savings from my job as a waiter.
Sitting at my desk listening to a Turkish folk song, catching up on the news from Hürriyet Daily, the only reminder that I’m actually back in Malaysia is the view across my room – rolling green hills struggling to maintain their allure from the encroaching development of suburbia.
A vista of Istanbul's European side (Avrupa), taken from the Asian side (Anadolu).
Lately my lazy daydreams of Istanbul have become longer yet more distorted, as I cling desperately to the fading memories of the time spent there – a criminally short five days.
How did I end up in this state of being, an Istanbul tragic in the midst of equatorial Malaysia? I hope to find the answer myself, as I jot down the details of my journey – retracing the steps like a latter-day Hitchcock – from an average guy to a tourist madly in love with a city he barely knew.
An elderly man looking across the Bosphorus towards Dolmabahce Palace (not the palace mentioned in the article...the palace in the article is unknown).
I remember reading about Istanbul, while researching through a list of potential cities to visit – Barcelona, Florence, Amsterdam, Stockholm – and being captivated by the intense history, a story of conquests, defeat, agony and victory built up over thousands of years.
I remember reading about the Ottoman Sultans, their ambitious conquests from the steppes of Central Asia to the gates of Constantinople, as Istanbul was known then; the privilege and excesses of court life and their obsession with tulips.
The view across the Bosphorus to Karaköy (ancient name Galata), which used to be the quarter of the Genoese traders during Ottoman times.
In particular, I remember coming across an article* about the final days of Sultan Ahmet III and the indulgent lifestyle that brought his downfall:
“Each spring the imperial gardens were filled with prize tulips. Songbirds in gilded cages supplied the music, and hundreds of giant tortoises carrying candles on their backs lumbered through the gardens, further illuminating the display. All the guests were required to dress in colors that flattered those of the tulips. The doors to the harem were flung open, and the Sultan´s mistresses stepped into the garden led by eunuchs bearing torches. The whole scene was repeated every night for as long as the tulips were in bloom, for as long as Sultan Ahmet managed to cling to his throne.”
I knew I had to visit Istanbul.
*Adapted from The Botany of Desire by Michael Pollan. Pages 82-83. New York, 2001
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