Istanbul : First Impressions, Aya Sofya and tour guides

First Impressions

he plane circled the skies waiting for its turn in the queue for the landing strip. I craned my eyes to get a glimpse of this ancient city over the winter rain clouds.  Istanbul was a mosaic of red rooftops, mosque domes, and minarets. Smoke escaped from the chimneys of the houses in the early morning, and the grey sky promised a cold and cheerless day.

After exiting immigration we searched the exit for our ride, as provided by the hotel. A lanky good looking youth, with long hair and a sports jacket, waved casually to us as we acknowledged the names on his signboard. He was talking on his mobile phone while he directed us to the parking lot and he remained attached to the device till he dropped us off at the hotel. Even though we were loaded with luggage, there was no offer to help us with it.  We ran to keep up with him and almost got run over by a car. Clearly, pedestrians are considered a nuisance in Istanbul.  We eventually learned that secret to successfully crossing the road in the city in spite of “Walk” signal is a confident and quick gait, a hint of don’t-you-dare-hit-me defiance and the strength of numbers.

Our cab was soon making its way onto tight and crooked streets of Sultanahmet. We were deposited outside our hotel and I mean that literally. We climbed out, and our luggage was dumped on the pavement outside us while we were still figuring out the entrance to the lobby. When we turned to tip the driver he was already gone!

An apologetic looking busboy picked our suitcases and took us to the reception. The hotel staff was nothing if not charming during the entire duration of the stay.

 

 

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Of Aya Sofya and Tour Guides

 “Bosporus city tour leaving in 20 minutes!”

“Istanbul guidebook. In Engleesh”

“Namaste. You from India?”

“5 liras for this woolen cap. For you I make special discount”

Huddled against Istanbul’s chilly winter breeze, we made our way towards Aya Sofya through loudly hailing men intent on parting us from our money.

Even though there was a slight drizzle, Sultanahmet’s cobbled streets were milling with tourists. Streetside cafes, from fancy Parisian imitations to oriental coffeehouses decorated with colorful silk carpets and cushions, were filled with people. On Divan Yolu, sharply dressed waiters lounged outside their restaurant trying to catch the eye of passing pedestrians. There was a mild aroma of roasted chestnuts rising from the red carts of street vendors.

I had just purchased the tickets to the Aya Sofya museum and was standing uncertainly, debating on whether an audio-guide was worth the 15 TL when we were approached by yet another tour guide. In Istanbul, one finds that there are as many tourists as there are tour guides – all wanting to be your new best friend.

The last guide, of the many that we had refused had left us with the ominous words – “If you don’t need a guide here, then you don’t need it anywhere in the world!”.  We were feeling less confident in ourselves and the research that we had done to prepare for this trip.
This new fellow, Asif, had an earnest face, a red nose and looked desperately in need of imparting his wealth of knowledge about Aya Sofya.

“I will show you things that no book will tell you about. I will tell you secrets,” he promised. It was hard to resist his offer and to give him credit he did show us things that we would have surely missed (perhaps willingly).

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Now people spend a great time inside Aya Sofya looking up – at the magnificent dome, the arches, the paintwork and the mosaics on the wall. We spent considerable time looking down at the marble floor as Asif pointed to the indentations caused by the frequent opening of the various heavy doors. We crouched on our knees at the Imperial Gate to feel the wear and tear on the floor, while people with their eyes aimed at the mosaic of the Savior above the gate, tripped and fell around us.

Asif took us to remote corners of the monument where there were no other tourists and security guards looked at us suspiciously.

“Look at this pillar and tell me what you see?” he demanded from us as he pointed to one of the many stone columns that support the ceiling of the church

“It’s very wide and the carving is –” I tried explaining

“No, no… what animal do you see on the pillar?”  he asked, cutting me off.

“Err…a lion,” I guessed wildly because nothing was visible to my naked eye.

“If you twist your neck and tilt your head like this you can see the camel shape. Do you see it? Do you?”

“Just say yes or we will never move on.” K whispered in my ear as I tried hard not to sprain my neck.

In a similar vein of exploration, Asif pointed to the large slabs of stone flooring and asked us to find floral patterns in them. When I expressed an interest to go to the upstairs gallery to check out the world-famous mosaics he impatiently waved my idea away – “Yes, yes! You go later. My tour only up till here. Upstairs not important. Let me show you one more thing. Follow me”.

We were then taken to a damp freezing chamber, with a large marble tub, and giant urns. This was the baptism chamber when the building was a functioning church. Riveting stuff this!

At the end of the really long 45-minute tour we were deposited in front of the Weeping Pillar. Asif explained that if we were to touch the copper column our hands will turn moist and we would be cured of all illnesses.

“I am not touching that.” I replied firmly as I saw dozens of tourists swipe their hands on the much worn out post.’

“Then how will you be cured!” Asif was clearly upset at our reluctance.

After a decidedly unemotional goodbye to Asif which left us several Liras lighter, we finally had a chance to truly discover the place.

Mark Twain’s “rustiest old barn in heathendom” is, in fact, an impressive architectural structure. The large lamps, all lit up as they would have been 1000 years ago, hung from the massive dome and provided the only illumination on a foggy day. They lent the museum its soft, quiet, somber atmosphere.

On the walls were the recovered remains of the Justinian mosaics alongside the newer paintwork by the Ottomans. The gold and the colored glass of the mosaics glowed in the dim lighting of the museum. The smooth, round columns, large enough for two people to put their arms around, held up the dome with intricate lace-like carved column heads.

Several pieces of the church were not built in Istanbul but were gifts from smaller provinces deep in Turkey or Greece. The mind boggles at how these heavy structures were transported over the terrain.

I am not a religious person and it is no secret that so much grief has been brought on the world in its name, but I wondered as I stared at the multicolored, detailed gold mosaics of Aya Sofya – would these exist if there was no cause for them?

If you have been to Aya Sofya, what has been your experience? What do you remember the most?

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