Hi again,

When I headed off on sabbatical, I didn't want to promise that I'd write on a regular schedule, even once a week. But being here on my own, I find myself wanting to share what I'm seeing and experiencing. So I'm writing again. I hope I'm not clogging your inbox. Once Robin gets here in late November and I have someone to share things with again, the flow of emails will probably drop off precipitously!

Bismillah

I'm taking a calligraphy class and learning some of the Arabic alphabet, which is really hard. Gives me a whole new or renewed appreciation for what kids do in grades K-2, learning to write. No wonder they turn their S's around backwards. It's hard to remember which way the thing goes if you can't read it anyway.

There are about a dozen people in the class, almost all of them women. I'm the only one who doesn't speak Turkish, so I get separate instruction after the teacher has talked to everybody else. Most of it is one-on-one anyway, though, as he shows you what the letters look like and how to make them, and later comes by and critiques how you're doing. (Since Atatürk, Turkish has been written in a Westernized alphabet, by the way, so many of the Turks are just learning to write the Arabic letters, too.) When the teacher took a blank sheet of paper from me the first week, before he wrote out a few of the ABCs, he wrote a word at the top of the page and showed me how to form it. Then after giving me the first 8 letters of the alphabet to work on, he transliterated my name into Arabic. It looks nothing like E-R-I-C. Actually, since it goes right to left, it's the equivalent of K-Y-R-E, but again, it looks nothing like that. Way cooler.

The teacher never told me what the word at the top of the page meant though, so today (3rd class meeting), I asked him what it said. "Bismillah," he replied. "The first word of the Qur'an. We use it whenever we start something new." And so it was the first thing he wrote on the page.

Alper had told about this. Bismillah means "in the name of God," and Muslims might say it whenever they start anything, like when they open the door to leave their house in the morning, or at the beginning of a meeting or a class, even before they get out of bed. Those of you who've taken part in the partnership meetings that our church has with a mosque may recognize the whole phrase--Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Rahim (often translated "In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful.") According to Alper, grammatically the word Bismillah should come at the end of the sentence but, again, by placing it at the beginning, it emphasizes that everything a Muslim does should be done in the name of God.

The calligraphy class is scheduled from 3 to 5 on Sundays. The first week, I showed up at 3. "You're late," the greeter at the school said as he ushered me into class. The next week I decided to get there a few minutes earlier. I had started so far ahead of time that I could have walked in at about 20 to 3. I thought that was pushing things, though, so I took a detour for the last half kilometer or so and got there at 5 till. Everyone else was already there. After class I asked the greeter what time the other students show up. "Some of them get here at 11:30," he said. Today I got there 45 minutes early and was still the next-to-last one to arrive. (So much for my earlier assumptions about "Turkish time.")

Gone fishin'

Wherever you go near the water here, men are fishing - off the Galata Bridge that crosses the Golden Horn from Sultanahmet to Galata, where I live; along the shoreline of the Sea of Marmara, which forms the city's southern border; up and down the Bosporus. I've only seen two women fishing - one older woman in Kas who clearly was an old pro and a young woman along the Marmara shore whose boyfriend was teaching her how to cast. Sometimes I see boys fishing with their fathers, but no girls yet. An American woman who teaches here says Turkish women complain about their husbands a lot, how they're never home, never spend time with the children. One thing I'm really lacking here is having any conversations with Turkish women, especially observant Muslim women, to hear what their perspectives are. I'm having lots of conversations with Turkish men, none with women yet. So I know I'm getting an incomplete picture. Maybe I'll be able to talk a bit with some of the women in my calligraphy class eventually. They've been welcoming, and a couple of them have greeted me in shy, self-conscious but friendly English. We'll see.

The fish that I keep seeing men pull out of the water are little, 4 to 6 inches long, and slender. They look like live bait you'd use if you were fishing for muskies, but whatever they are, they're keepers here. The men fish with a heavy sinker and several hooks spaced every 10 inches or so. I saw one guy reel in four fish at once. One day the fish must really have been running because lots of guys had buckets full of them. No limits, apparently. But usually the men are just standing there, watching three or four poles at a time.

The shoeshine con

I've "discovered" a con that the guidebooks don't tell you about. This happened to Isabel and me once, then to me again today. You'll be walking along (both times have been in the rain--don't know whether that's significant or not) and a shoeshine guy walking ahead of you drops his brush, apparently without noticing. Being a helpful sort, you pick it up, catch up to him, and return it. He's oh-so-grateful; please, let me shine your shoes. While he's giving your shoes a quick saddle-soaping and a brush, he (or his friend who's with him) tells you that he has a sick child - both times the child has had eye problems - and high medical bills. Whatever you can give would be very appreciated. I can tell you're a good person - you gave me back my brush! - please, just 50 liras, my child's medical bills are so high. (50 liras is about 35 dollars.) The first time, Isabel gave whatever change she had in her pocket since she didn't have any bills. Today I knew I had a 10 and a 20 in my pocket and pulled out one, hoping it was the 10. It was the 20. Please, the bills are so high. He kept pointing at my pocket. Then he took a 5 and some coins out of his pocket. Give me more and I'll give you change, he said! (I didn't.)

If you come to Istanbul, you have been warned. Leave the brush alone. I'm sure he'll come back and get it. If somebody else doesn't retrieve it for him.

The long walk home

Today after my class, I decided to explore parts of Sultanahmet I hadn't seen before. I'd wondered, for example, why the Hippodrome seems so small. I'd read in a guidebook that you can still see that it was much larger than it appears by walking past some buildings and finding the retaining wall that marked the end of it. So I found that (quite impressive, but woefully neglected) and then walked down to the Sea of Marmara for a circuitous walk home. Off in the distance it looked like an impound lot after the first snow of winter - except this was for ships. Hundreds of them, large and small, each waiting for the OK before heading up the Bosporus, I guess. While we're all sleeping snug in our Istanbul beds, world commerce just sails on by, all night long.

Looking back the other way, toward the city, you can still see long but broken expanses of the old Constantinople defense walls, which kept invaders out for over a millennium until Fatih Mehmet, then 21, and his forces overtook the city in 1453. The lone exception to Constantinople's invulnerability before that was the Fourth Crusade, when Christians from Europe sacked the Christian city and carried much of its treasure back to Venice, including the equestrian statues that used to stand over the Hippodrome. They're now in St. Mark's basilica. Perhaps the Crusaders were invited in before the Byzantine emperor knew their intentions. They were supposedly on their way to wrest Jerusalem back from the Muslims. But after sacking Constantinople, they just took their loot and went home.

(A good book I just finished reading, by the way: Sea of Faith: Islam and Christianity in the Medieval Mediterranean World, by Stephen O'Shea.)

Praise songs and chattychurch

This morning I finally made it to church. Very different from going to the mosques, beginning with passing through a metal detector to get into the building. Why, I don't know. We all set it off and the guy standing guard didn't check anybody. A pretty diverse ethnic crowd inside, most seemed to be American, though the minister is a white South African. I sat in the back with a couple of black African men who looked like they were first-timers, too. Nobody greeted us except during the passing of the peace. Generally it looked like the regulars were all glad to see each other while the rest of us just sat there. The worship service was mostly the singing of praise songs--just the words were printed, you had to know the music or sing it by ear--though I did notice that they had old copies of the Pilgrim Hymnal in the pew racks. The sermon was pretty good but too long by half. Text: I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life.

I didn't stay for the fellowship hour. Not sure if I'll go back. After my time in the mosques, it seemed so busy, so confident (as opposed to humble), so chatty. Maybe next time I'll pretend to be Catholic and go to Mass.

Iyi Bayramlar

Ramazan ends today or tomorrow. Tomorrow, I think. Today I did the whole dawn-to-dusk fasting the way it's supposed to be done, getting up before dawn to eat (I simply couldn't sleep) and not eating or drinking anything till after the sunset azan. I happened to be rounding Seraglio Point (the rhino-horn on the map where the Bosporus meets the Golden Horn) at the sunset azan and decided to treat myself to one of the fresh fish sandwiches you can buy on the quayside. (These are bigger fish than they catch off the Galata Bridge.) A boat was rolling heavily in the waves while tied up to the pier. Onboard a man grilled fish and onions and tomatoes and these long green peppers on a griddle. A man stood on the edge of the pier taking orders and passing the sandwiches out. They split half a hoagie roll, put the fish and veggies on it, and hand it all to you in butcher paper. Three lira ($2). You just pick the bones out as you eat it. I also picked out pieces of the spine, as well as a fin. Maybe it's best to eat these things in the daylight.

I don't know if it's just my imagination, but it seems like I see more Turks eating during the day now that the Night of Power is behind us. Apparently I'll really know that Ramazan is over when I see Turkish men everywhere, sitting around in the broad daylight drinking tea.

I hear that everything except a few restaurants is closed tomorrow for (or preparing for) the first day if Seker Bayram, the festival at the end of Ramazan.

So iyi Bayramlar, everybody. (Happy Bayram.)