“What is he looking at?” I thought incredulously, catching a glimmer of movement out of the corner of my eye.
“Curiosity, perhaps?” I wondered, until - oblivious to what was occurring - he snatched my hand and forced it downwards onto his exposed genitals.
“You like?” he asked, smirking greasily with a glint of contempt in his eyes.
More shocked than disgusted, I hefted my hand free, grabbed the nearest bottle of liquid upon which I could lay my hands and poured it in the general direction of his crotch, replying disdainfully “absolutely not!”
Stunned by my curt reaction, he informed me that the police would be called and would unquestionably “Take you away because you bad!”
“I’m bad?” I retorted, unsure whether to fight or run.
With adrenaline coursing through my blood vessels, I told him to “Get out of my face otherwise I’ll do more than pour water onto your crotch.”
Confused, he walked away as I shakily continued reading my book, sitting in front of the grand Hagia Sophia.
Returning to Europe's East - Stepping inside Istanbul
Several years had passed since I’d experienced a culture outside of European boundaries. The Eastern ‘surprises’ that modern-day Constantinople unveiled were somewhat more than I’d anticipated. The fusion of two great continents in Istanbul, as mystical and intriguing as it is, was initially no distraction while in receipt of harassment by some Turkish men. Blonde, curly-haired blue-eyed Anglo-Saxon guys seemed dinner to those seemingly deprived of their apparent right to procreate. Bemused yet not allowing myself to be mired by the strange behaviour, I continued exploration of the numinous city bedecked in grandeur.
Tantalising Trinkets - Istanbul's Grand Bazaar
Following the unusual encounter in the park, the Grand Bazaar beckoned: with over four thousand shops covering an area the size of a small city neighbourhood, there was no shortage in shopping options. In fact, options were excessive, which made choosing a Turkish treasure an onerous task. Before diving in head first and losing my mind, I opted to indulge my palette: baklava topped with crushed pistachios as a side to freshly brewed Turkish coffee slid down seamlessly.
After gaining vital energy from the indulgent snack, the glitz, glamour and aroma emitted by the inner sanctum summoned, luring me like a magnet inside. As I walked from shop to shop, the people, products, colours and smells began painting a three-dimensional profile of the nation’s personality. Hanging lanterns of assorted size, colour and shape spun gently as they caught the breeze wafting from the Bosphorus. Silver, copper and gold Aladdin-like pots, positioned strategically at shop entrances, reflected the glimmer of the light emerging from their respective homes. Shops bustled with the clamour of haggling voices, adjusting and reducing the price of hand-painted ceramic plates. Assorted spices – heaped in colourful piles like the shifting sands of the Sahara Desert – released aromas collected by the wafting breeze, spreading delicately throughout the Bazaar.
Cultural Encounters - Tea and Turkish Hospitality
Peppermint tea accompanied discussions that unfolded with shop owners, passing time to permit reorientation of my overwhelmed senses. Its fresh flavour, coupled with a teaspoon or two of dissolved sugar, soothed me from within. Reservations I’d had began to dispel; genuine curiosity resonated in many of their faces. Speaking often in broken English, several men who owned the shops at the back of which we sat told personal stories of victory, trial and tribulation. Not only were they proud owners of successful businesses, working hard to make a living – showcasing their goods to people passing through, they spoke of a desire to see the world “Outside Turkey.”
They thus threw me questions to retrieve snippets of desirous information – vicarious adventure, to aspirant international travellers.
Dulcet and Rhythmic Tones - Prayer Call
The next morning, following a day replete with sightseeing, I was roused from sleep in the wee dark hours by a peculiar tradition synonymous with the Islamic East: call to prayer. Initial disorientation clouded my mind: was I dreaming, or, were the mysterious sounds wafting through the window real? Before long, as wake transpired and reality emerged, the baritone humming and rhythmic chanting led me to the hostel’s terraced roof. As the speakers - mounted on the minarets of Hagia Sofia – expelled the dulcet yet explicit tones of a male voice, hordes of men moved through the streets, drawn magnetically to the words of the Quran pulling them to prayer. The incessant tones were mesmeric, as was the trail of human traffic snaking its way through the shadowy streets. I was witnessing a ritualistic Muslim event unique mostly to the Middle East, a tradition spanning thousands of years. As I returned to bed, thousands – if not millions – of other men were making their way to mosques scattered throughout Istanbul. Although foreign to my personal culture, prayer call was inspiring to witness, and made the park’s encounter seem more like an anomaly than common behaviour.
Mind and Body Indulgence - A Hammam Visit
Following a return to sleep for an additional hour, I decided to let the advice of a good friend - who’d recently visited Istanbul - guide choice over my day’s activities. Epitomised by self-indulgence, yielding to a Hammam visit is an idyllic way of entering a world evocative of daily life in Turkey. At the equivalent to GBP£50 a visit, partaking in Cağaloğlu Hamamı’s splendour is a truly luxuriant experience guaranteed to etch the grime out of every nook and hidden cranny of weary skin. Luxuriousness aside, Hammams are places of social interaction where men and, often separately women, too - following a rigorous massage - indulge in cups of peppermint tea while discussing worldly affairs.
Entering the somewhat dilapidated building, I hesitated: surrounded by greasy stray cats, beggars and crumbling walls clearly beaten by the winds of time, I became concerned about the interior. As I hesitated, feeling perplexed, five local men – bags replete with goods for the visit in tow – rushed passed through the old door. I followed suit and stepped inside. The environment transformed immediately. A fresh-faced and friendly young Turkish woman readily took the notes I’d safely stashed inside the daypack. She issued me a towel: with barely enough woven fabric to cover a toe, I realised I’d be revealing a little more flesh than desirable. Nudity qualms aside, I was ushered to a room on the balcony above in which I was to change. Clearly size is an issue to Turks as the room wasn’t much larger than the towel. I hesitantly undressed, covered my nether regions with the hand-sized towel and made haste for the hammam entrance, trying to avoid bun exposure to the dining room patrons sitting behind.
Steam Puffs of Opulence - A Real Turkish Massage
The world beyond the wooden doors was replete with exoticism and intrigue. I stopped, momentarily, to ogle at the opulent interior: a large hexagonal marble table lay in the centre of the ornate room, strategically placed under a stone dome arching into the heavens, pores fragmenting rays of light that danced around the room. Surrounded by puffs of steam, I floated to the attendant - guided by the touch of the circular walls, eventually finding my place on the warm marble. The edges of his bristly moustache – perfectly symmetrical on his middle-aged austere face - remained downturned, as his brawny hands moved the towel and placed it in a modest position over my body. I felt the intensity of his brute strength bear down on my shoulders, squeezing out a “Too rough, too rough” moments later.
Muttering away in Turkish, he adjusted his grip and continued the soap and tepid water scrub down.
I grew wings and left planet earth on a journey to paradise. The air filled with the aroma of exotic oil, the same smell his textured hands used to loosen the knots years of neglect had created through my body. With one eyelid slightly ajar, I moved my head sideways and saw other men undergoing the same treatment, scattered like dark flies over the marble surface. I heard the familiar slosh of soapy scrub downs, followed by soft groans that fuelled the atmosphere of pleasure.
Visiting Istanbul Alone - Solo Travel Reflections
Begrudgingly, after the indulgent massage, I followed the man – who was now covered in sweat - to a steam room: I sat, momentarily, and cleared my lungs. After an invigorating cold, naked shower, I wrapped the wet towel around my waist and he motioned me back to the box in which I’d undressed. I changed, then slowly sipped away at the peppermint tea that had been left. Over the balcony, below, men were sitting together in post-massage attire, chatting jovially in groups. Despite a dearth in Turkish fluency, the interactions I witnessed did not seem unlike gym and sauna encounters driven by testosterone-camaraderie of men worldwide. The familiarity was enchanting and again shifted the negative experience that occurred outside Hagia Sofia into focus: it had been an abnormal encounter, over which to be laughed in future recounts of solo travel tales among friends.
