What does the experienced and exhausted tour manager do once he gets some time off? He goes on tour by himself, naturally; a week in Turkey on vacation and a few days in London, Coventry, Rotterdam and Amsterdam. The simple joy of walking through an airport without dragging a posse of tardy rock-stars on to a plane. Such sweet, sweet joy.
After a one-night visit to London where I got to see a performance of Histoire De Melody Nelson and L'Enfant Assassin des Mouches by composer / arranger Jean-Claude Vannier at the Barbican. Guest vocalists came on for the Histoire De Melody Nelson (Jarvis Cocker, Badly Drawn Boy, Laetitia Sadier, Gruff Rhys, Brigitte Fontaine). Going to gigs without being paid for it, and enjoying it? Christ, don’t tell anyone. The show was fantastic. And Herbie Flowers was playing bass which somehow made me feel happiest of all.
Istanbul:
I’d never been to a Muslim country before. I liked seeing such a different culture up close. Our hotel was near the Blue Mosque so were woken by the muezzin and the call to prayer at 6am every day. It’s an amazing sound. In the background we could hear the other Mosques around the city come to life for the day. I liked that there was a sense of religion there and that people still offered devotions thrice daily. Even if some people are paying lip-service (as there are in all religions), there’s something to be said to having a society where some semblance of humility is part of daily life and woven into the day to day doings of people. I liked the humble and holy feeling I found inside the Mosques themselves. I was appalled at the lack of respect many of the tourists showed by not wearing headscarves or by talking and taking flash photo’s near people praying – and not just westerners either – Asians and middle-eastern tourists were all equally insensitive. I guess everywhere’s a theme park these days. I found it refreshing to realize first-hand that Muslims and Islam are not the twisted people and religion of the news propaganda or maniacs. Judging Islam and Muslims by the extremists that obviously do exist is like assessing Christians and Christianity by looking at the Klan. More than ever, people are people. Money seems the most divisive factor in the world to me, and not the way one chooses to worship, or not.
The Blue Mosque - shout-outs at 6AM, 1pm & 7PM.
Istanbul is where East and West meet. It’s evident in the city – in the old town it’s all mosques and history, across the river there’s a shopping street like any in the west complete with Pizza Huts and Burger Kings. Not that this is surprising anymore but it underlined that here is a border that goes beyond the physical barrier created by the Bosphorous.
In the tourist places I found people universally friendly and gracious, but not so always o the street. Being tall with long hair makes me stand out a little (and being vain and shallow makes me like this). In China, where I get a fair amount of attention I was met with stares but likely as not smiles and giggles. In Istanbul I was met with many many flat, dead-eyed stares. It took me a couple of days to work this out and in the end the only rationale I could come up with was that people were less fascinated by my appearance as they were faintly contemptuous of it. Not that anyone in Turkey was really giving me a second thought, but it was noticeable. And to be honest, I was being as biased in my own way about them, interpreting every blank stare as hostile and resentful. However, having seen how tourists wandered around the mosques it would be easy to understand why the two cultures have a long way to go in some regards.
Normally prudish about strangers touching me, I decided to go for a Turkish Bath as I didn’t want to miss the opportunity. How could I not? I picked a 300 year old bathhouse that was suitably very tourist friendly (ie: very good at relieving me of my money) and signed up for the Sultan Treatment.
Once inside I was given a cubicle where I changed into wooden sandals and a thin towel that just fitted around my waist and was the size and thickness of a large tea-towel.
Then I was led through to a room where several men were lying around and being bathed. Through this room and I was into a smaller chamber where I was to loosen up in the steam. After ten minutes or so my masseur collected me and began rubbing me down with what was to be the pre-massage. He looked like a bond-villain’s henchman. Piano teeth, thick black moustache, a large mole over one eye and a purple knife-scar on his eye-lid. He mimed to me whether I should be on my back or my front and ground my skin mercilessly. I was determined to be stoic about it and not cry out. I am British. And it sounded so undignified when the other men in the room were doing it. After he’d loosened the top layer of my epidermis he took me to one of the alcoves where there were taps with running hot and cold water and began to bathe me. Like I said I’m a little prudish about this so it was al I could do not to giggle as my masseur ran his hand up my leg soaping my thigh. Once I was slippery as a fish he instructed me to lie on the marble floor where he gave me another massage. This time I did cry out, and grunt, and I made noises that I never expected to make with another man. I think it was the only way I was going to get him to stop leaning on me and running his elbow down my spine (don’t try that at home). At one point I thought he was going to crack my ribs, such was the pressure he put on them.
Once it was over he spoke the other three words he knew (aside from “Good “and “Sittum”) which were “Fifteen, twenty euros”, as his recommendation for the tip I was to give him. He needn’t have worried, I would have been too scared to leave without tipping.
Here are some photo’s of the trip. I don’t know that I’d rush to go back, but I’m glad I’ve seen it. And I liked that I could take a boat across the river to Asia, which is, of course, my spiritual homeland.
This is Asia. Good, innit? The River Bosphorous was busy the whole time we were there. Huge freighters ferrying cargo to and from the Black Sea all day and night.
The bus station at the West end of the Galata Bridge....it's rush hour...
