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Try your luck...
This man and his bunny will tell your future for a couple Lira (and so would I).Hey all.
Listen, I know I owe you the sordid tales of Split and Belgrade, but I've been in Istanbul for the last howevermany days, and I'm feeling much more moved to tell you all about it. Yarns of hotel rooms by-the-hour and eternal train rides with toothless Bulgarians are forthcoming, I swear. But for now, sit back, have a glass of tea, and let me tell you some more recent stories, beginning with this one, about the market...
Markets, at least in my neck of the woods, are now sterile, placidly fluorescent places that betray no whisper of the origins of their wares. Historically, however, markets have a reputation for being quite dangerous, full of peril and the risk of being had.
First, you see, as a shopper, you place your faith in the hands of the hawker, trusting that he (and it ususally is a he) will be honest about the qulity of his goods. You cannot squeeze that pear, nibble that grape, or smell that melon. There will certainly be no checking of the gills on those mushrooms and and you! Quit petting the apricots!
Oh no.
In more traditional markets, you ask,
Yes - that is a bucket of leeches.
Step right up, folks! Leeches by the ounce! I actually think that the very moment I was staring - amazed - at the writhing spectacle, several hundred dollars were lifted from my tired little wallet... and you direct as to quantity. That's it. In the event that you are, for instance, an ostentatious 'Merican who knows not a single bloody word of the local language, you point and gesture. In either case, it is only after you have made your purchase that you are allowed to become more intimately acquainted with your food.
Markets are also historically rife with rifraff, teeming with all manner of unsavory characters, from dishonest salesmen to conartists to petty thieves.
Despite the dangers, I love 'em. Love 'em! When I lived in California, my market day was my major social outing, and it was the highlight of my week. Consuming many hours, the adventure would begin at the farmer's market and end in the endless edible cavern that is the Berkeley Bowl. May I be buried under its floor boards when I die (with a loaf of Phoenix olive bread, please).
I love the abundance, the fertility, the sense of opportunity. I love the color, I love the activity, and, more than anything, I love the pure exchange between laborers. From farmer (ideally) to cook. Clean.
Inevitably, when I find myself in a new city, I
Dinner #1
Couldn't afford much more. What I found to be most interesting is that round of bread... it's called Simit. Really close to "semite" or "semitic," don't you think? The beginning part of the word, "sem", or "sim" is eerily similar to "sesame," and, well, if I were judging, I'd say that's a hell of a sesame bagel... I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'... find my way to its market, often without (consciously) trying. My two days in Paris found me skipping from store front to store front, nibbling as I went. Other than my hotel, I cannot think of a single building I entered that did not offer me something to chew. Louvre? What's that? Do they have ouefs en gelee there?
In Ljubljana, barely after the sun rose I was in the market tasting sauerkraut and buying fresh yogurt. Hvar had no market, so I left the next day. Split's market saw more of me the than any other part of the city, though the vendors didn't seem so happy about it. The only thing I did in Belgrade other than sleep and yell at the pimpled boy behind the counter was go to the grocery store.
And, in Istanbul, the entire city itself is a famed market with a reputation extending over a thousand years. Small wonder I flew my butt halfway across the world to get here.
I arrived, put my bags down, brushed my teeth, and headed off to market. I meant to go directly to the spice market, but apparently my veggie radar was momentarily
Sigh...
This is the Blue Mosque - incredible at sundown. It was the evening after The Incident, and I had nary a penny. All I could afford to do was buy a tomato for dinner, slice it up with some salt, and head down to watch the sun set below the minarets. What else does a gal need, really? muscled aside by my glitter radar. I ended up finding my way by walking through the Grand Bazaar, which twinkled with sequins, silks, glassware, treasures both gaudy and exquisite - and occasionally both at once. As I walked, the ancient tiled walls resonated with the plaintive songs of prayer that echo across the city five times daily.
After much walking in and "no thankyouing," I found my way to the spice market. Immediately lost again in the alleys and tight throngs of people, I gazed speechless at the sacks, barrels, and windows laden with cheese, flipping fishes, pickles, olives, crystalline sweets, and spices in colors warmer than the sun. About an hour later, I headed out of the fracas, hauling a booty of cheese, figs, dolma, apricots, and bread.
And I was about $150 (US) lighter, as I became one in a thousand year-old legacy of being pickpocketed at the market.
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Lisa Heinrich
non-member comment
OY
OH NO!!!!!!!