in the pistachio fields

The morning after our brief glimpse of Gaziantep took us through the nearby pistachio fields in search of the Yellow-throated Sparrow, which was a near guarantee if we could brave the sweltering heat. Under a relentless blue sky, the pale earth rolled in gentle hills dotted with the hardy green trees which were bearing their fruit, delicately tinged with magenta. I had never seen a pistachio tree before, but the sight of them brought me the smell of the cigarette smoke that curled out of my aunties' lips as they peeled the red and pink skin off the kilos of raw pistachios they had smuggled to my mother's balcony from Lebanon.

Our sandals crunched across the dry soil, and I paused in the shade of a tree while Pedro wandered on with his binoculars tight in his hands. Suddenly, as birds so very often appear, a small flutter turned out to be the very creature we were hoping to see.



True to the drawing in our guidebook, the little brown bird turned to reveal its lemon-yellow throat. Watching that bird through the telescope in the silence of the orchard, I felt overcome by a deep happiness. Birds are great like that; they have this magical ability to transport you simply by being, and doing their thing.

As the sun climbed higher, we left the fields for Mount Nemrut on a meandering route past a flat landscape of yellowed grass. Every so often a tiny village would appear, and with each cluster of dung or cement houses, resident donkeys tethered to the ground would blink at us as we passed by.

fading light

a small feast

things to buy in gaziantep

Gaziantep was next on our agenda, and we rolled into town sometime in the early afternoon, just in time for a museum stop and some lunch (which I shall share with you in the following posts). Ever since the last time I visited Antep, I've had in mind a copper cezve— a little pot for making Turkish coffee— and despite my purposeful beeline to the Bakircilar Çarşısı, I got distracted by a great many things along the way. We bought a knife from the nice man above, wondered if we needed a carpet Che Guevara, were puzzled over knotted plastic bags of what looked like cola, and debated if we needed any more tea. I have a cabinet full of teas.



After purchasing a lovely little cezve, we sat down to a quick kahve before hitting the road for Urfa.

dove love

Call the bird a dove, and everyone loves it. Call the bird a pigeon, and suddenly the poor thing is a "flying rat." Well, not in my presence! I have a deep appreciation for every member of the dove family, including our humble pigeons, otherwise known as Rock Doves.



To celebrate the recent return of YouTube in Turkey (yay!), here's a terrible video of the old news story of a Turkish truck driver who refused to continue his route upon discovering a dove had laid her eggs in a nest she built upon his truck. The man would not move his truck until the baby birds hatched and fledged. Love for doves is a big thing here in Turkey, where it's not uncommon to see a rooftop coop of fancy pigeons carefully tended to by a burly man with a cigarette dangling out from under his moustache— and behold:



Some ancient artist in Zeugma felt the need to include this little pidge in a mosaic.

little stones, and a farewell to old friends

The Zeugma Mosaic Museum in Gaziantep is simply stunning— if you ever find yourself in Antep, have a baklava, then visit the museum. The floors and walls are covered in massive, detailed mosaics of mythological figures, animals, and colourful geometric patterns. I imagine the feet that walked on these works of art, the cool stones smooth under toes and heels— these masterpieces which once decorated the villas of the elite of Zeugma. Zeugma was an Ancient Greek (then Roman) city on the Euphrates, an important stopover on the Silk Road.



Who arranged these millions of tiny little stones? I get goosebumps when I think of ancient artists; people whose names and identities have been lost to time, people who worked tirelessly in collaboration or alone to create beauty that has lasted centuries— millennia, even. I like to think of their hands. Their sketches and rough drafts. Their patience.

In her own private room, the museum's most celebrated mosaic is illuminated by a spotlight in pitch-dark:



Zeugma's "Gypsy Girl" stares back at us just as she did so many years ago when her artist first laid down the siennas, umbers, and salmon pinks of her eyes. A student of mine, passionate about art and wildly curious, asked me "of all the faces here, why is hers so special that it deserves its own room?"

Is it the delicate changes in values and colours? The highlights in her irises? That one white stone on her bottom right (our left) eyelid that gives it a sense of wetness? Is it the way she stares straight at us, seemingly right into us?

"Well, why do you think she's special or unique?" I asked, in my Ms. Zaza voice.
"Oh I don't know," she sighed, "she's just so beautiful..."



While selecting the photos for this post, I came across this one and thought I'd include it, though it has little to do with what I've written about above. I know it sounds silly, but I have a thing for shoes— and I don't mean an obsession or anything like that (though Pedro might say I'm in denial on this), but I have a hard time getting rid of shoes. My shoes have memories; they've taken me places and I've experienced things in them. I remember getting this pair of Converse for Christmas one year, and I remember switching out the laces to black shortly after (the shoes faded to a brownish-grey, but the laces remained as black as ever). I rode ferries in them, climbed rocks in them, their soles met the soil of several countries, and withstood monsoons. They carried me through Antep and made it to Istanbul Atatürk Airport, where they finally peeled so badly apart, it was certain that this was their last adventure and they would be of no use to anyone.

here comes the baklava

Rumour had it that a stop at the famed Imam Çağdaş was a must. From my understanding, the restaurant has been around since 1887, and ships about a tonne of its fine baklava to all corners of the globe each year. A tonne. In preparation for the sugar rush, we ordered a mix of kebabs to line our stomachs— some familiar, like the good old Urfa and Patlıcan kebabs, and some I have never before seen and will never remember the name of. For instance:



The combination of spiced meat, butter, garlicky yogurt, and aubergine was simply out of this world (ok, out of curiosity and a slight pang of hunger, I just looked up the kebab on the Imam Çağdaş website)— the Ali Nazik is a perfectly justifiable reason to unbutton the top of your pants or loosen any drawstrings at the waist in public. Really.

Then there was the baklava.



I was instructed by a concerned waiter that the proper way to down this sticky piece of heaven was to first carefully wrap it in a piece of paper, then eat it by hand. I confess that I do not have much of a sweet tooth, nor do I find baklava particularly exciting, but this was fantastic. The syrup balanced perfectly with the pistachios and pastry— and my, oh my... those pistachios were good!



I think I've been converted into a baklava lover, and might have to return to Antep some day to sample more baklava at other sweet shops and restaurants— you know, to see if the city really has the best baklava in Turkey. So far from what I've tasted, Antep's claim to fame seems to hold truth...

a peek at old antep

a magpie's dream

On my way back to Istanbul I spent the night in Gaziantep (also known as Antep), rumoured to be the home of the best baklava and pistachios in Turkey. Antep also has one hell of a mosaic museum and metalware bazaar, and both were on my agenda. As the bus slowly navigated the city's busy streets, which were crammed with faded bloc apartment buildings, I wondered if the appeal of Antep lied solely in its baklava. We soon arrived at the old quarter, which seemed a world apart with its yellowed stone buildings, striped with black.

The Bakircilar Çarşısı, or Coppermith's Bazaar, is a magpie's dream— under the cool shade of the tarp, thousands of shiny, beautifully crafted objects dazzle the eye. Conversations get lost in the tapping of hammers against metal, and every now and then, the heat of a blowtorch forms a passing pocket of temperature.



Antep quickly grew on me.