Halvdan was here

The Grand Bazaar in Istanbul is the sort of place that you could enter and never be found again. With 62 streets and an area of 30,700 m², it would be decidedly easy to get lost, and wind up wandering the bright streets, forever. Actually, there are probably a fair few lost souls floating about the place.

The beginning of what is rumoured to be the biggest and first shopping mall in the world was in 1455 shortly after the Ottoman occupation began. It was an attempt to get the economy going. It was gradually added to over the centuries until we have the massiveness we visited today.

The group split up again because Sarah wanted a pashmina and I was looking for some spice. Lindy wound up with me and Anthea was with Sarah. Poor John was left wandering, searching for anyone he recognised. Eventually, and by sheer good fortune, he spotted Sarah somewhere in the labyrinth.

While they roamed, I was sat in a small shop tasting spice mixes, Turkish delight and some pretty sweet fruit teas. Lindy joined me for what turned out to be a very entertaining shopping experience.

Although Lindy wasn’t going to buy anything, one sip of some peppermint tea, convinced her otherwise. Our salesman, Murat, was very good at his job. By the time we left his shop, laden with purchases, we were almost related. He claimed he was my younger brother.

Lindy and I were eventually released back into the wild where we found the closest exit, back into the hurly burly of Istanbul’s standstill traffic. It was all downhill, literally, as we made our way back to the docks at Eminönü where we sat and recovered for a bit as the big tourist boats arrived and left.

We felt sorry for one chap who had a big boat and no-one on it. Lindy reckons his sales pitch must be pretty bad. Every time someone walked by, he’d yell out something in Turkish, trying to entice them on board. When we headed off, he had captured four young women but that was it. His boat would easily hold a few hundred of any and all genders.

We eventually regrouped back at the house before heading out for the highlight of the day: Hagia Sofia.

Completed in 537 and serving as a Christian church, it was turned into a mosque after the Ottomans arrived in 1453. It became a museum in 1935 then, in 2020, they realised they could make more money if they opened a separate museum and turned the place back into an operating mosque.

Up until the cathedral in Seville was completed (1520), Hagia Sofia was considered the world’s largest. In fact, it was the largest for almost 1,000 years. I can’t find anywhere that says how much water it would take to fill the Hagia Sofia, but I guess it’s a little less than the one in Seville.

Saying it’s big sells it a bit short. It was easily the biggest building we’d been in this trip. (I’m not counting the Bazaar which is, essentially, a building of buildings and not very high.) But the Hagia Sofia isn’t just about the vast size, it also has some mighty impressive mosaics which the Ottomans plastered over when they made the change of usage.

Fortunately, some clever people removed the plaster and the images were once more revealed.

Of course, a mosque isn’t allowed to have depictions of humans on the walls. This is because, they believe, their god created the perfect human and anyone drawing a human is trying to compete with him. To this, I would ask why their god gave humans the ability to draw in the first place if he hated art so much.

Anyway, I’m not going to rant.

The fact that the Ottomans didn’t destroy the mosaics in some iconoclastic explosion of artistic criticism, is a blessing. The restored images are fantastic.

The ground floor, which is the prayer bit of the mosque, is not open to us infidels but we could look down on the visiting Muslims who lounged about on the thick, luxurious looking carpet. Mind you, they still insist that no knees be bared, even upstairs under the ‘loving’ gaze of Jesus.

Incidentally, the reason men can’t show their knees in a mosque has nothing to do with the Quran. There’s nothing in the book which discusses men in shorts. It seems, it is considered immodest to show one’s knees in the holy places. It’s as if the religious leaders weren’t happy with their design. Like women’s hair. Better to hide mistakes away from the public glare, I guess. I’m a bit surprised they question the work of their god, though. Still, what would I know.

Someone else, who wasn’t particularly bothered about church decorum, was a Viking by the name of Halvdan. While serving as a mercenary in the Eastern Roman Empire army, he decided to scrawl ‘Halvdan was here’ in the marble balustrade. It’s quite difficult to see because of the lights and the perspex covering it, but the runic writing can just be made out.

Lindy and I left the others to visit the museum, where poor John was forced to watch a terrible film. We, instead, returned to the Cobble Bar and had a little libation. The day had been rather hot and the ice cold beer was a welcome relief. Lindy had white wine which isn’t really the same but still hit the right spot.

Eventually, and regrouped once more, we all headed back to the house for a final finishing up of any food that remained in the fridge.

Then bed made for a welcome completion of the day.

Tomorrow, home.