The Case of The Bookworm and The Travel Bug: Istanbul 2022

The Mysterious Mannequin was the first Nancy Drew story my mother had given me. It had a bright yellow spine, a cover intriguing enough for the exotic tale of Istanbul it spun, a disappearance in the Grand Bazaar and a confrontation in the Basilica Cistern, messages concealed in a carpet, and throwaway descriptions of baklava and moussaka within.

And so that must have stayed firmly in the back of my impressionable young mind until, decades later, I decided to visit on a whim. It had been a toss-up between Montenegro and Türkiye for that year’s fall destination; childhood memories won out.

The sun was setting over the Black Sea coast as we landed in Istanbul Havalimani. The hotel car I’d booked also came with a VIP meet and greet and fast track service; a cheerful host with an immaculate smile was waiting at the bottom of the jetway to whisk me on an electric buggy through the halls, through passport control, and on to the luggage carousel where the concierge was already waiting with a gleaming birdcage trolley. Both of them then escorted me all the way to the car park to meet the sharply dressed chauffeur.

I don’t require such attentive cosseting, but I can enjoy it.

Catstantinople

One of the things everyone knows — and indeed, one of the key reasons I had booked flights — is that Istanbul has a large population of four-footed locals. I am a solid dog person, and saw several large, very good boys and girls in winter coats that warmed my heart, but they were outnumbered by the city felines. From the regal inky void with inscrutable green eyes, to the fellow with a dark patch rakishly tilted over one eye, to tabbies and gingers, tortoiseshells and calicos, it was a delight to catch sight of them all. I met the most beautiful one on the road from Dolmabahçe Palace, a striking creature built like a Norwegian forest cat with glossy coal and sable fur.

Seven hills

On my first full day exploring a new neighborhood, I managed to fall flat on my bum by the road, startling more than a few pedestrians — and this is how I remember that Istanbul is also known as the city on seven hills. My Istanbulkart got stuck at a turnstile (a terrifying ordeal of a few seconds for an anxious type like me). I went around in circles looking for the underground funicular, and also hopped on a tram heading in the opposite direction that I supposed it would. (But soon I was navigating the Taksim interchange like a pro.) I unwisely got caught in a freezing downpour that turned my blithe afternoon stroll into a soggy miserable slosh all the way to the next metro station.

And there was a magnitude 6 trembler that woke me up at 4 am in my room on the 14th floor — my first groggy thought had been , Is it a ghost shaking my bed, or is it an earthquake?

Turkish delight

One day, with the wind nipping in my face and my hands firmly in wool pockets I decided to forego the metro and meander down lively Cumhuriyet Caddesi from my hotel in Bomonti to Taksim Square and join the other tourists gawking at the Republic Monument. There was a robust police presence, perhaps owing to the bombing incident that had happened on the famous pedestrian avenue, Istiklal Caddesi, just the previous week. It was a brisk afternoon, sea birds wheeling in the pebble-grey skies above. Down on the streets a steady stream of overcoats and puffer jackets surged, faces peeking out from underneath fur-lined hoods and knit hats. I was glad of the impersonal gazes, the anonymity I could fall into.

On my way back from the square, I ducked into a crowded cafe. Unfamiliar with the labels and not wanting to hold up the queue while I dithered, I pointed at random and ended up with a plateful of börek, warm savory pastries stuffed with spinach, cheese and ground meat. Paired with Turkish tea, quite possibly one of my more memorable meals.

Istanbul does spoil you so with treats. Baklava and moussaka and Turkish delight (another sweet I learned about from books, specifically The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe), yes. Bountiful breakfasts with a bevy of Turkish cheeses, grilled mushrooms and beef ragu tagliatelle so good I ate it on two consecutive evenings, Asian-flavored nibbles on a rooftop terrace overlooking the Bosphorus.

And because I am a creature of habit, I embarked the usual pilgrimage to Shang Palace, content to graze in extravagant solitude on xiao long bao in red, pink, and green, fried beef with crispy garlic, fried rice, and chicken and prawn siu mai topped with caviar.

Another day found me in Sultanahmet Square. I lurked around the Imperial Gate of the Topkapi admiring the sebil, the fountain built by Sultan Ahmed III, to dispense water and sherbet. The Blue Mosque was closed for renovations, so I drifted past the German fountain, a gift from Kaiser Wilhelm II; the Serpentine Column made of looted Persian weaponry and dedicated to Apollo at Delphi; and an imposing Egyptian obelisk transplanted from Alexandria to the hippodrome by the Byzantine emperor Theodosius I.

Those hieroglyphics were the closest I’d gotten to Ancient Egypt.

I braved the queue at Hagia Sophia for a chance to stand, awestruck, inside the holy edifice that had once been the largest cathedral in the world. The lights that float entrancingly above lead the eyes ever upward to the medallions inscribed in Arabic calligraphy, then the pristine stained glass windows, and finally that splendid, immortal dome.

From such a spiritually uplifting place I descended into the dark and chilly Basilica Cistern, with its moody lighting and haphazard Roman building materials. Our titian-haired detective had fallen into the aquamarine-lit water as she confronted a shadowy nemesis, but I would have no such accidents.

Elsewhere, the glittering intoxicating chaos of the Grand Bazaar drew me in, though unlike Nancy’s friend Bess, I did not disappear; and I emerged in a downpour to walk along the Golden Horn in the rain. The sentimental traveler in me adores the romance of it all, and lingers greedily over every sensory historical scrap.

I found my way back to Istiklal, and its bright red tram and bookstores and stylish shops, dropping in at the ornate St. Anthony of Padua church with the soaring Christmas tree just outside. One of my travel rituals is reading one or two authors from the country I visit, whenever I can; this time I came away with A Tale Within A Tale by Ahmet Ümit, and the equally lovely The Architect’s Apprentice by Elif Shafak.

Another travel ritual is sending postcards home; I managed that, too.

I climbed Galata Tower, because I never met a round tower with a ticket booth and a queue that I didn’t venture into. (A year later, it would be Rundetaarn, in Copenhagen).

And then finally there was the Dolmabahçe Palace, a shimmering monument of Ottoman splendor on the banks of the Bosphorus. It’s said to be built on the cove the Argonauts of myth dropped anchor in pursuit of the Golden Fleece.

Autumn brushed the filigreed palace gates in tawny red and amber; inside were even more beautiful objects. Gilded ceilings, the world’s largest Bohemian crystal chandelier, masses of marble and gold and porcelain and Egyptian alabaster. The pink-walled harem with its well-lit halls and opulent sitting rooms was an exquisite cage.

I sit by the river gate, and look across at the misty minarets as the seagulls cry along the shore.

Bomonti to Besiktas

I would be remiss if I didn’t write about the havens I retreated to after each intrepid day. The first one was in central Bomonti, a neighborhood that sparkled with cafes and art. Right across its namesake brewery was the largest Hilton in Europe. Sleek and warm, it housed a three-storey spa where I of course tried the traditional hammam. The service was as polished, and personalized: somebody made me a Turkish coffee; the reception team gifted me an extra box of Godiva chocolates, and signed their standard card for a complimentary drink in the lobby lounge with an infinity sign “so you will return to Istanbul.”

After I came back from Goreme, I plumped for a scenic Bosphorus stay at the luxe Conrad, where I was welcomed into a glittering lobby all dressed up in Christmas finery, presented with an upgrade to a room with a view of the park and the skyline, and — even better — access to the hushed executive lounge. The room was high up enough that birds would strut along the window ledge and peer curiously inside.

And it was but a downhill amble to the Shangri-La for dinner.

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I’ve run out of words at the end of this post, but it isn’t the end of the story. This bookworm with the travel bug will be back.