It is late when we arrive, but the city is still purring. Settling into

the hotel room, I look out the window. Gulls circle the minarets of the Blue Mosque like lightening bugs. This enormous arched building rises up, back lit against a black sky. Dozens of gulls having dinner on the wing are illuminated, swirling around and around the minarets like dizzy stars in the blackness. This was an apt visual preview of the rustic, strange and sublime that would unfold in the next two weeks on our visit to the magical land of Turkey.

Under dark rolling clouds, the sound wails like cats in the night. The first call to prayer awakens the birds at the threshold of dawn.

Repeating the cry five times day, the sound blasts from loudspeakers fixed high on a mosque. This prayer stops some, is ignored by others, filling the air with a melancholy strain.

Rolling down the highway at twilight, a green and grey mosaic unfolds. A land dotted with cows, sheep, lakes, villages punctuated with minarets flashes by. After the suburban high rises, we come to the city surrounded by ancient stone walls. Stretching out in the fog, the city
rises up and spreads out over seven hills. Flanked on one side by the Bosphorus, the road weaves up into the old cobblestone enclave where our hotel is situated.

It is late when we arrive, but the city is still purring. Settling into the hotel room, I look out the window. Gulls circle the minarets of the Blue Mosque like lightening bugs. This enormous arched building rises up, back lit against a black sky. Dozens of gulls having dinner on the wing are illuminated, swirling around and around the minarets like dizzy stars in the blackness. This was an apt visual preview of the rustic, strange and sublime that would unfold in the next two weeks on our visit to the magical land of Turkey.

Istanbul is a city to walk in. Strolling across crowded cement bridges crossing the Bosphorus, fishermen hang their lines in the gray green water below. Streets are packed with vendors selling pancakes, shoes, watches, sardine sandwiches, scarves and onions. Men in suits, women in head scarves hurry by on their way. Everywhere there are shops displaying intricately patterned carpets and the salesmen beckon you in.

Crossing the street is serious business. Narrow and cobblestone, cars bumper to bumper push along crowds who seem to move faster than the vehicles. On wider streets, the vehicles make up for the delay. Driving like crazed zombies, they switch lanes at the last second, ignoring traffic signs, zipping by at speeds that seem to defy gravity. Latif, our Turkish guide explained that the Turks have been subjected to harsh rule throughout history, so finally they get to wield power behind the wheel. To cross this traffic and stay alive, one must use underground tunnels. These enormous urban underpasses pulsate with people selling plastic dancing dolls, shirts, tools, all manner of dime store items. Odors of garlic and fried fish entice the hungry for a quick meal as vendors prepare food in tiny stalls.

A long bus ride from Istanbul took us to Safranbolou, a Hansel and Gretel village nestled on a steep hillside. Streets of rough stone wove around alleyways of small shops. We arrived at our hotel, an old chalet type building with carved wood shutters. In the narrow streets, stray
dogs and cats darted in and out of our path. A cat waited in front of butcher shop hoping for a scrap. Left on their own, these animals dot the landscape like mobile litter, skittish, curious, searching for food and a quiet place to sleep. A dozen cats jump out of a dumpster into the night.

In the evening we went to the Turkish baths. Entering this ancient round stone edifice, we were led onto a closet full of rubber sandals, dishes full of soap and little bottles of shampoo. We disrobed, wrapped ourselves in the towels and went though a large wooden door to a marble
room. Floors, walls were grey white marble that rose up to a high circular ceiling. This was the room with the turkish toilet, a hole in the floor with two footprints for your feet. Then another large carved wooden door opened to an enormous space, again entirely marble with a
slab in the middle and four adjoining open rooms with elegant marble sinks at the back. Water drained along the floor in gutters catching the sink's overflow. This was a room with a current, a vital spacious place that echoed in its arched emptiness.

With anxious anticipation, we waited to be massaged by the husky woman. Each of us took turns lying prone and naked on the center stone slab. Working in her underwear, she smiled and talked to us in Turkish while she spanked, splashed, slapped, pummeled, and pulverized our flesh. It was soothing, brutal and erotic all at the same time. A cloth that felt like sandpaper was vigorously applied, now with an olive oil soap. Turn over she gestures and your back gets worked, then each leg bent at the knee. Too soon we are sent off to the sinks to fill the pans with cool water and pour it all over ourselves to rinse.

Elaine Schwimmer, Berkeley