two-twenty

greetings from istanbul | joanna

Sitting in the posh garden cafe at the Four Seasons Hotel in finally-sunny Istanbul awaiting what surely is the only expensive cup of espresso available in the city. Oh, the waiter just brought me my orange juice... with cookies!

Our lovely but distinctly less swishy hotel -- the Hotel Kybele -- offers slug slow internet access, so it's taken the allure of WiFi to get my ass over here. Uh huh, and you just thought I'd snuck off for a bit of luxury. Well, high speed access is a luxury, I suppose. At least here.

Anyway, it's almost five pm, and the prayer just started. Would write that it's taken getting used to, but somehow it hasn't. Culture shock has been minimal, or at least in small, short waves. Biggest moment came a few moments in the New Mosque when I respectfully donned a scarf before entering. Thing is, it's tough for me to separate the creepy feeling I experienced then from the sense of ick I always feel when entering places of worship. Have decided that I’m an equal opportunity religionist. And that regardless of how beautiful a church or synagogue or mosque purportedly is inside, from now on, I'm staying out. Discomfort level higher than curiosity.

Four Seasons is located just past the Aya Sofia and the Blue Mosque. Prayer louder here.

And now, because I'm not sure how long it will take before the hotel's threat of charging me $24 for 24 hours of access will remain idle, a random list of observations/experiences from the last few days...

Wait, before I go on, Four Seasons stereo creating mesh-up of prayer and Grand Master Flash. Maybe it's okay because he's a Grand Master? Okay.

Egyptian Spice Bazaar today. Bazaars here are crazy. Realized that the West has removed most of the humanity from the shopping experience. Here it's like being way-back-when, only the products, well, some of them, have changed. That and they take credit cards.

Commerce everywhere. Impossible to walk the street without having someone try to get you in his store. Favorite enticement so far, "Come in! I can help you spend your money!". So direct.

Walked the streets here on my own for the first time. The men's eyes scarcely graze me when I'm with Ash -- we saw a guy getting kicked on the street, most likely for something having to do with the woman who screamed as she watched -- but alone, they don't just look, they stare and ask questions and practically stalk me.

Two nights ago, I'm pretty sure three separate men thought I was a prostitute. Ash was a step ahead of me on the phone, and one guy actually slowed down his car and rolled down his window. We were off to a nice restaurant so I was sporting a dress. The hemline was not that short, I swear.

Came back to the hotel that night and stopped by to visit Mike, one of the Kybele's owners, in his low ceilinged lair. Place is his pussy palace. We entered to find one woman asleep under one of the many multi-colored textiles that adorn his futon. He sat between her and another, fondling her nipple under the covers while he entertained us. "You look cold," he said pointing to my bare legs. "I'm fine, Mike." "No, no, it's not that I don't want to see your legs, they are lovely legs, but you are cold." Next thing I knew he'd covered them with a blanket. So it goes.

More later, maybe tomorrow. I'm getting cold.