Every symbol in Chinese textiles had significance, and evolved from several philosophies and concepts. The Chinese enjoy puns and plays on words, and often designs were used if their verbal sound or written character was similar to a quality or virtue. Hence, because the words for bat and happiness sound similar, bat became the symbol for happiness.
The invention of the draw loom and the development of jacquards and brocades allowed patterns to be woven into the cloth. Common patterns included checks, diamonds, zig-zags, coins, clouds, dragons, lions, horses, flowers, birds and fish. Brocades were often over-embroidered to augment the woven patterns (a technique I now employ on my hats…)
Learn more about Chinese Symbolism in embroidery and textiles here:
This installment provides a ‘Cliff Notes” historical overview of embroidery stitches in China and Europe, and rolls right into the stitches themselves.
There are somewhere around 100 – 150 identifiable embroidery stitches used worldwide. I have only captured here those that are the oldest and most recognizable. For additional stitches, please look into the additional resources at the bottom of this post.
Travel inspires my work.
This is my singular inspiration from Spain, from the Cloister of St. John the King in Toledo. It took about 6 years to bring this hat from drawing board to finished piece, and hours of experimentation to translate the arches not only into textile, but into a commercially viable piece of wearable art.
The first one I made was from recycled wool. The arches are ultrasuede that I gleaned from a thrift store skirt, applied in padded applique to give the arches some additional dimension. Detailed in hand embroidery, and finished with a mink rescued from a vintage coat.
I have made one other in a Garden style, with a padded fabric cuff ornamented with grape leaves, vines and grape clusters. Both styles will be available soon by custom order in my catalog.
My first breakfast in Granada was in the modern district, at a cafe that seems to attract every cop in the city for their morning coffee. My last breakfast will be in the historic district of Albayzin, followed by a day of leisurely walk-abouts as I savor my final day in Spain.
I hop the #31 Red Tour Bus to the old Moorish quarter of Albayzin, where I have breakfast of cafe de leche with no sugar, and ‘1/2 racion de churros’ – a sort of donut but very airy and not as sweet. I watched the cook as she swirled the vat of oil before extruding a length of batter into it, using long chopsticks to catch the batter and guide it into a spiral, flipping it once in the oil before flipping it out onto a plate. The entire process took about 45 seconds.
The Albayzin District is whitewashed like Cordoba was, a restful change from the sites of the past couple of days. I enter at San Nicholas Square and start wandering down streets and selected alleyways. I find the Great Mosque but cannot enter. Built in 2003, it’s a modern, compact building with a tiled three-station ablution area. There’s a fountain in the courtyard and a great view of the Alhambra and the Sierra Nevada mountains in the distance. The view must be spectacular at night.
A farmers’ market is in full swing today. I find a shop window full of small doll-like religious figures. The white hooded figures at center look like KKK but are actually inquisitors, among other church themed figurines. It struck me as really odd, given how gruesome the Inquisition was in Granada …
There’s a blue path laid out on the cobblestones that seems to be an art installation, running from San Nicolas Square to some unknown stopping point. I follow it and discover a chapel built into a wall is all that remains of the Fortress of Granada, that pre-dates the Alhambra. Here’s a synagogue which is also closed, which has curious brass horseshoe-donkey motifs on the planters on each side of the door. I stop to photograph an iron grillwork that is nearly identical to the one on my front door at home. It would inspire me to do a minor make-over of my front porch, to play up the Spanish influence.
I cannot find any books, but buy some tiles as a souvenir before catching a bus to the Sacromente, which I miss and end up back downtown. By the time I arrive, it’s siesta, so the Cathedral and the Royal Chapel are closed. I check out of my hotel and board a bus to Malaga, where I have booked a hotel close to the airport for my flight home in the morning.
I check into the Hotel Solymar, a non-descript but adequate hotel two blocks from the beach. I walk by a granite marker inscribed with ‘Birthplace of Antonio Banderas” which cracks me up, especially when i start seeing other references in shop windows. I do not see any such monuments dedicated to Pablo Picasso, who was also born here.
I choose a fish restaurant on the beach and have the full attention of the staff since I’m the only one there. I look out the window towards an industrial area to the north, and an absence of sea birds over the waves.
The tide is coming in. The beach is dirty but I take my shoes off anyway, and venture out into the surf for a stroll as the sun sets on my last day in lovely Spain. You will find photos of my final day in Spain on my photo-blog at Daveno Travels.
When your concierge says “you only need to be at the train station five minutes ahead of departure,” take him at his word. So far this trip, my hotels have been 5-10 minutes away from the train station, and a 5 or 6 Euro fare.
In spite of his suggestion, I arrive an hour early for my next destination – Granada and the famous Moorish Red Fortress known as the Alhambra…
I board the train for Granada, which is delayed three times due to accidents and adds an hour to this trip. I arrive at the Abadia, where I check into a pleasant, spacious, modern room on the floor level of a courtyard filled with small palms and tables with umbrellas. I would enjoy coffee a few times during my stay here. I’m a little fatigued this morning and my Google directions have failed. It is still early enough for a cappuccino so I stop in the first cafe I find, for a cup of caffeinated froth and a consult in my travel guide. I’m off to find the Cathedral.
I encountered living statue street performers in Florence, and find one here as well. This one is a Roman soldier who becomes animated as soon as you put coins into his box. I watch him for awhile before heading to the Cathedral, running a gauntlet of gypsies so numerous and aggressive that their attempts to exchange their sprigs of rosemary for coin becomes a contact sport. I think I should have hired the Roman as a bodyguard…
There’s an open air spice market just outside of the Cathedral, where I buy tea and saffron, and sample candied aloe vera, which tastes sort of like green tea ice cream. I enter the Calle Reyes, a plaza filled with cafes and shops. I manage to find a sewing shop in every city and Granada is no exception. This one carried mostly yarns and flosses, embroidery hoops on stands, and the rayon that mantilla fringe is made from. There’s also a statue here of a famous guide and his burro.
I hop aboard a tour bus and head up to the Alhambra.
Once inside the complex, my first stop is the Tienda Libereria de la Alhambra, the official bookstore. My purchases are governed by how much weight I am willing to carry for the rest of the day. Beyond that there are several souvenir shops selling both antiques and replicas. Among the wooden pistols and knives is a scissor-dagger in a sheath, which I lust over for several minutes before walking away from the case.
Must. Move. On…
Entry to the Nasrid Palaces is timed, so I visited the Generalife, a separate area outside of the Alhambra Fortress, built as a recreational area where the Kings of Granada could escape their official routine.
The Generalife (“Garden of the Architect”) reflects the Muslim concept of garden as it is referenced in the Koran and to reproduce paradise on earth. Dating back to at least the 13th century, it originally included orchards, farmland, and animal pens. It’s gardens are currently planted with citrus, jujube, pomegranate and grapes, cypress, laurel, jasmine, and roses, which are very fragrant. Andrea Navagero, the Venetian ambassador to Charles V, wrote in 1526:
The Court of the Myrtles (named after the hedge that surrounds it), previously known as the Court of Alberca or the Court of the Pool, is an example of classic Granada architecture, built during the reign of Muhammed V (the founder of the Nasrid dynasty). Half of the wooden ceiling was lost in a fire in 1890.
Beyond the Patio of the Sultana is the Water Stairway, dating to the 16th century. Under a canopy of bay trees, four sets of terraced stairs are linked by three landings, with a small fountain in the center. The stone handrails have channels carved into them that were filled with water that flowed so fast, they created little whirlpools at the round joints. The sound of birds and water throughout the gardens was omnipresent, and at times, drowned out all other sound. I would remember it as one of my favorite spots here.
I enter the Fortress through the Water Tower and veer right, walking past more gardens and into the section called the Partal. The Palacio del Partal is another of the oldest buildings at the Alhambra. The tower is known as The Observatory and the pond serves as a water tank. Its original roof was dismantled in the early 20th century and resides in the Islamic Art collection in the Pergamon Museum in Berlin.
Next to the Partal Palace lies the Mexuar Oratory, the private place of prayer for the sultan and his retinue. The Mexuar was the first of the Nasrid palaces to be built here. It is oriented towards Mecca and is unusual in that it’s windows are open rather than being enclosed in glass. Its walls are carved plasterwork that I would later see in the Nasrid Palace. John Hoag, author of “Western Islamic Architecture” describes the work as “carved with incredible intricacy on a scale so minute it looks like embroidered cloth.” It’s a very accurate description.
I was not prepared for the visual feast. There are so many viewpoints framed by architecture that at times it becomes surreal, and feels more like I am standing in a painting instead of a landscape. Like my experience at the Topkapi, after awhile I put my camera away and just tried to drink everything in with my eyes, confident that much of what I would see would be included in the stack of books I was adding to my Islamic arts library.
The Courtyard of the Lions is said to correspond to the Koranic definition of Paradise and is also called “The Garden of Happiness”. The channel at the feet of the lion fountain symbolizes the four “rivers” running off in the four cardinal directions. It is one of the most private places in the Royal Palace. This courtyard dates to 1380.
The Fountain of the Twelve Lions is under restoration. Originally a water clock, each lion spouted water to mark a specific hour. After the Reconquista, the new Christian inhabitants dismantled it to see how it worked, but could not reassemble it. It has never worked as a water clock since that time. The lions are thought to date back to the 10th century; two of them are on display in Palace of Charles V. The top of the fountain was removed to another garden in the Generalife complex. I have included a black and white photo of the original fountain in my corresponding blog at Daveno Travels.
Washington Irving, author of “Tales of the Alhambra” and “Sleepy Hollow” lived in the Royal Apartments in 1829 before becoming the ambassador to Spain. My vacation was extended by reading his book, and retracing my steps through his eyes. I quote him periodically throughout the rest of this journal:
The Hall of the Abencerages is at the opposite end of the Courtyard of the Lions. This is the first apartment which constitutes the Harem, this section reserved for the Sultana. This was also the site of an assassination, and the blood spots are still said to be visible on the marble floor. When Washington Irving lived here, he was told that this part of the palace was haunted by the event, and that sounds of low voices and the clanking of chains could be heard late at night.
Facing the courtyard is the Hall of the Two Sisters, the best preserved section of this palace. It is named after the pair of stone slabs that flank the fountain which is imbedded in the marble floor. A channel leads the water from this fountain to the center Fountain of the Lions. There is a network of pipes below the surface which recirculates the water back to the fountains.
Washington Irving resided at the Alhambra in 1829. I poked my head into his lodgings in the Royal Apartments. The interiors felt Italian in style, in what looked like mahogany paneling, a dark contrast to the carved plaster of the rest of the complex. I later read in Irving’s account of these rooms in his “Tales of the Alhambra.”
The fountain and the garden he later describes, are still there, although I am sad that I did not arrive home with a photo of it.
The palace of Charles V, a stark Florentine-looking box which now houses the Alhambra Museum, includes Roman and Islamic artifacts. The building is expansive on the inside but as it is not furnished, it is hard to tell what it may have looked like in period. Its round courtyard was commissioned by Charles for his bride, Isabella of Portugal. The architect was Pedro Manchuca, who was born in Toledo and studied in Italy under Michelangelo. The building was abandoned during the next century, having never acquired its roof.
This oldest section of the Alhambra is the Alcazaba, built on Sabika Hill, where a castle already stood, dating back to 860. It was renovated and became the defensive fortress for the entire Alhambra Fortress. It is separated from the rest of the fortress and the Nasrid Palaces by the Wine Gate, where tax free wine was sold during the medieval period. It was here that Boabdil relinquished the keys to the city to the Christian monarchs at their successful end of the Spanish Reconquista.
I end my tour of the Alhambra at the Monastery of San Francisco. It was built by Queen Isabella in the 15th century to fulfill a promise she had made to her church, to build a monastery next to the Moorish palaces in the Alhambra. It stands on the site of a mosque, palace and gardens built in the previous century. Ferdinand and Isabella were originally buried here, but were later exhumed and moved to the Royal Chapel adjoining the Cathedral downtown.
The Monastery now houses the Parador Hotel. I could not afford to stay there, but did eat dinner there, where I ordered a salad but was served a plate of salted salmon instead. The dining terrace affords a magnificent view.
For additional information about the Alhambra, or to plan your own trip there,please visit their website.
This collection resulted from my travels through Istanbul in 2011. They are shown there alongside the architectural elements that I was inspired by, which includes the Harem Apartments at the Topkapi Palace, the Grand Bazaar, and my favorite mosques.
Of this collection, the Suleyman and Suleyman Garden remain among my most popular styles, made by hand from mostly reclaimed textiles. Both styles are available by custom order, and through my galleries during the fall and winter season. I have also reintroduced my Topkapi, hand painted on linen for a lighter weight summer hat.
After overcoming my fear of flying in 2009, my first international was to Carnivale in Venice, a trip that would inspire me to create hats that mirrored the sites I had seen there. Two years later, I returned to Florence, and then went on to Istanbul. I would now be happiest if I could visit the world every six months : )
The journals for this collection are now available here. I hope you will continue reading the back stories behind my creations.
Next up – a Gothic hat inspired by my travels in Spain!
This collection resulted from my travels to Italy between 2009-2011. They are shown here alongside the architectural elements they are inspired by.
Of this collection, the Venetian and Venetian Garden remain among my most popular styles, usually by custom order, made mostly by hand and almost entirely from reclaimed textiles and found objects. I have also reintroduced the Florentine to my Custom Catalog.
My first trip outside of the US was in 2009, when I attended Carnivale in Venice. It is the trip that started my internationally inspired designs. Read the rest of my Travels in Italy for the back stories behind these hats.
After I have seen all the sites in the Jewish Quarter of Cordoba, I break for lunch. Today’s attempt at ordering tapas and a mojito for lunch are ‘corrected’ by the waiter who insists that I should more properly order a crab salad and a glass of white wine. Apparently I was trying to order bar food and I also apparently defy the meals of a stereotype female. The salad comes with a packaged loaf of bread. There is so much pre-packaged food here… Music in this restaurant is American rock from the ’50’s.
I finish the lunch that was chosen for my by the wait-staff, and spend my next few hours at the Alcazar.
The area outside the wall is a public park / plaza. I was surprised to find plazas of hard packed yellow clay more often than plazas of grass.
Unlike the other ‘castles’ here which were actually manor houses, the Alcazar feels more like a fortification. A statue of King Alfonso stands near the entrance. There are a number of artifacts here but I only found one furnished room, a council chamber, perhaps used as a war room. A stone staircase takes you to the roof where the view between the crenelations is far superior to the view from tower I would later see at the Roman Bridge.
The highlight of this building is the gardens in back, with its terraced pools down the center, filled with foot-long fish that are probably hand fed. There are mosaic pools in Romanesque themes situated towards the back corner. The garden also features formal box hedges, and topiary in the shape of large jugs with handles.
I cross the wide, brick paved Roman Bridge to the Museum of Three Cultures. There are buskers and a few craftsmen stationed along the bridge, and a statue of Saint Raphael, guardian angel of Cordoba since the 16th century, when he appeared to a clergyman, proclaiming that the city was in his possession. This tower at the end of the bridge hosts a museum, which begins with a ‘talking wax statues’ presentation, which, although interesting, was a little tedious. The rest of the museum is mostly panoramas of various aspects of Islamic life.
Across the street from the Alcazar are the Almohade Bath (the Caliph’s Baths), a partially restored ruin of royal baths. You enter a Reception Hall, built in the 10th century, when the Alcazar became the governor’s seat. There are traces of carved plaster in this room, with foiled arches, inscriptions, plant motifs, geometric decoration and mythological animals. In the center of this room there was once a fountain with a spout and basin, which may have been used as a reception hall or a ceremonial space by the governor of Cordoba between the 11th-14th centuries. It was also used by the kings of Castille.
The informational placards (of which there are many) will tell you that the Baths had a perfect design, from the changing room where you would leave your clothes, to the Cold Room, where you would perform ablutions at the tiled fountain, and use the latrine. It is here that you would receive a cloth and ‘alcorques’ – a cork-soled sandal that would help you to avoid slipping or scalding. Your next stop would be the Warm Room, a domed room where you would bathe. You can see the original marble slab flooring here.
You would then progress to the Hot Room, another domed room divided into three spaces, two had pools, one of which was installed by Christians during the 13th century. A bronze furnace between the two pools supplied heat to the pools and the hypocaust – galleries under the marble flooring through which heat passed from the furnace to the chimneys. Ceramic pipes distributed heated water to the pools and also heated the marble floors. The furnace was made of refractory brick and was kept lit at all times to prevent the deterioration of the boiler. It was only extinguished to change its position or for repairs.
There was also a garden here but it was in serious disrepair. It originally was divided into four parts by two channels, in the center of which was either a pavilion or a fountain. (I would later see this style of garden at the Court of Lions in Granada, and would learn that it reflected the ideal of Paradise in Islamic architecture). The garden was laid out in front of the baths at a lower level than the floor of the portico, so the tree tops were at the same height as the people. The garden may have contained orange and lemon trees, myrtle and aromatic plants, making it a pleasure for the senses.
I walked along the riverfront and shops, it’s ambience heightened by the number of women dressed in traditional flamenco wear, apparently for some festival.
Dinner is, at last, tapas! A small plate of marinated shellfish, and another plate of potato and pepper salad, followed by a flamenco show at the Tablao Cardenal later that evening. I may never know why I was seated at a table by myself, at the corner of the stage, with everyone else being seated at the other end of the room. At intermission, one of the lead singers sat down at my table and tried to strike up a conversation, but my Spanish remained inadequate, and all I could say was “no habla.”
On the stage, the women are spirited in step and very serious in facial expression, in high contrast to the men, whose broad grins were so contagious that even the women were smiling by the end of the evening.
It was a great experience to end my stay in this city. See more of the Alcazar and Cordoba on my photo-blog at Daveno Travels.
I leave the Mezquita and admire the palms, as they filter shade onto the hard-packed clay that paves the public spaces here. I am off to the Jewish Quarter, one of the best preserved and largest urban Jewrys in Europe. There are two homes of note here, across the street from each other, as well as the Synagogue.
The first home is Casa de Sefarad. The first room of this house is filled with absolutely stunning metalworked textiles as well as jewelry and household objects.
I admire cases of jewelry, including a pair of silver cloak brooches, and a metal wedding cap similar to those I saw in Bursa. A selection of Hamsa, which was a cross-cultural piece. Muslims call it the Hand of Fatima, symbolizing the five pillars of Islam. Jewish people call it the Hand of Miriam, symbolizing the five books of the Torah. There are several mediums represented here, including metal piercework, enamelwork, and one piece that displayed a Sultan’s tughra (calligraphed signature) on its palm.
The rooms here are painted in vibrant shades of blue and red, with wood planked floors rather than tile. I am stunned to find a full size painting of Lubna, a 10th century Cordoban woman with extensive knowledge of calculus, metrics, and math. She worked in the library of Caliph Al-Hakim II, considered the most important depository of knowledge at the time. She is also a doppelgänger for a friend of mine, Kate O’Guinn.
Nearby is a synagogue, built at about the same time as the house. Its small size indicates that it was a private space, built for the family. Built in 1315, it was used until the expulsion of the Jews from Spain in 1492. In 1588 it was the property of the shoemaker’s guild, who added a chapel dedicated to St. Crispin, the patron saint of shoemakers.
There is a timeline here showing the persecution of the Jews over the centuries, starting with the Roman inquisition of 1184, the destruction of the Jewish Quarter by fire in 1391, and the Inquisition of Cordoba in 1482. The most wrenching reference is to the night of December 22, 1504, when 107 Jews were burned in a single night. By the mid-18th century, the burning of people stopped, but was replaced by the burning of books…
Across the street is Andalucia House, whose claim to fame is a scale model of one of the first paper making factories in the Western world. Paper was invented to China, and carried by Muslims during the 10th century to Europe via Bagdad, Sicily and Spain. Clicking on my previous photo link will bring you to a step-by-step photo expose of the papermaking process and the medieval tools that were employed.
Cordoba is almost as much like OZ as Istanbul was. My introduction to this city is a drive through a very crowded street, along a stone wall which I would discover is the Mezquita, a model of which I saw at the Islamic Science Museum in Istanbul last year, and a major reason I came here.
My taxi drops me off at the front door of Los Patios, across the street from the Mezquita.
What a happy little hotel! The enclosed courtyard is filled with palms and tables, with 23 fully furnished hotel rooms overlooking it from the second floor. The concierge tells me that admittance to the Mezquita is free in the morning (Sunday) and that my meals in the hotel are discounted by 10%. I take advantage of that offer by sitting down to a dish of squid in ink sauce and my first Sangria before setting out to explore the city…
Near my hotel is a horse stable and a poster advertising the equestrian festival which begins the day after I leave. The stable is locked but I find a piece of screening that had been torn away enough to be able to slip a camera through. I can just barely see the heavily vaulted ceilings and iron railings that separate the stalls.
The next street leads me through Los Patios District. The origins of these courtyards date to Roman times, when houses were built round open air ‘agora’s. The Moorish term is casinillo, with their additions of fountains and flowers. They are almost always whitewashed, and every inch of wall space is covered with potted plants and flowers, predominantly geraniums, and many of the owners will gladly charge you a pittance to allow you to come in and look around. I paid a 50-cent admission fee to enter one of these courtyards, and found it cool and incredibly fragrant.
Heading north takes me into the Art Nouveau District, where the architecture is a mix of Nouveau and Deco facades. Turning a corner suddenly brings me into the stark ruins of a Roman temple dating to the 1st century.
I tour the Palacio de Viana, a series of twelve courtyards and a garden taking up 6,500 sq.m. of space surrounding a 14th century manor house named after the Marquises of Villaseca, a ruling family who lived here until the 19th century. Among my favorites was the Courtyard of the Cats, the oldest documented community courtyard in Córdoba, known in the 15th century as the Houses of Puentezuela de Tres Caños. The Courtyard of the Orange Trees was originally the Arabic kitchen garden, and the entrance to the palace in the 15th century. It includes a maze garden with a fountain at the center, surrounded by 100-year old orange trees.
I was not able to take photos inside the palace, though I did take a few of the kitchen, including an interior water well, a version of which I would see again in the Jewish Quarter. The rest of my photos for today are on my photo-blog at Daveno Travels.
I finish my day with dinner at an outdoor cafe, where my lack of Spanish thwarts my efforts to order tapas. I notice the tent card on the table for pre-packaged flans, custards and ice creams, that are delivered to your table in their wrappers. I would find identical menus at nearly every restaurant I ate at here, and was amused with the concept of restaurant menus for freezer-case desserts.
Breakfast the next day is toast and pate that tasted like a spam product, peach juice and plain yogurt with a separate sugar packet, all served in individually pre-packaged servings. I share the dining space with sparrows who are scavenging crumbs from underneath the tables, and bathing in the fountain, two tables over.
Ready for my day, I walk across the street to the Mezquita. Admission is waived on Sunday mornings so locals can attend Mass. Walking through the 800+ Islamic arches with Latin liturgy echoing in the background remains one of my most memorable experiences.
Walking from one end to the other is a tour through history, as you can discern the ages of the various naves by the differences in the columns and the structure of the arches.
Guards are posted around this area during Mass to prevent tourists from taking photos. You are free to wield your cameras once prayers have concluded.
I admire the fretwork encased windows, many of which are reproductions. At the other end of the building are a number of glass cases housing artifacts ranging from Visagoth carvings, to bibles with silver fittings, and what I believe is the gearwork for a clock or chime tower, as tall as me and about 8 feet long. It’s a pretty impressive clockwork.
It was difficult for me to leave this mosque. I leave the dark coolness of the Mezquita and step out into a brilliant sun, filtering through palms onto a hard-packed yellow clay where most public places would have either pavement or grass. I’m off to the Andalucia House…
My travels have taken me from Venice to Florence, and to Genoa – centers of commerce during the medieval period, and of heightened artistic and scientific endeavors during the Age of Enlightenment. Istanbul presented itself to me as a counterbalance, with similar pursuits and advancements equal to their European counterparts, and in some cases surpassing them.
My next destination continues to trace a path through Europe as it existed under Muslim occupation. That pathway brings me to Andalucia, in search of the remnants of medieval Spain when it was under Moorish rule.
My favorite flights are those that are uneventful, as this one was. My only memories of it are giving up my window seat so a mother could sit with her child (who had booked seats separated by a row and an aisle), and being woken up at midnight Madrid time for yet another white something sandwich. By the time we land in sunny Madrid, I’m dying for a salad. I find one with white beans, red peppers, and eggs with bright orange yolks, the first orange yolks I had ever seen.
I board a city bus to the Madrid train station — a large, clean, modern multi-platform affair with large airport-style screens showing arrivals and departures. It’s pretty easy to navigate as long as you pay attention not only to your train number and gate, but also if your ticket says “Baha” (lower floor) or “Plata” (upper floor). I exchange USD for euros, and find a ledge to sit on, within sight of the reader boards. There are beautiful palm trees just outside of the double glass doors, which I thought led outside, until I stepped through …
I enter a wing that looks like an aircraft hangar, filled with a conservatory containing full size palm trees, and a pond filled with over a hundred turtles of various sizes and ages. There are shops along the sides and a couple of restaurants. It is serene and I look forward to returning here to make my connection between Toledo and Cordoba.
It is pouring rain when I arrive at the beautiful Neo-Moorish train station, and it takes me several tries to hail a cab for the winding, uphill five minute ride to my hotel, The Santa Isabel, located in historic Central Toledo.
I walk through its 15th century doorway and up a colorful ceramic-tiled staircase, and enter my room. It is spartan, with heavy carved doors on iron hinges. A mock balcony overlooks a niche carved into the building across the narrow street. It is very quiet here and I fall almost immediately to sleep.
Breakfast the next morning in the crowded dining room is bread with olive oil, tomato puree and prosciutto, orange juice, and a cup of very thick coffee served with a double-sized packet of sugar. It’s a far cry from the Turkish breakfasts that I am now completely spoiled by. I finish quickly so I can start my plan for the day.
I thought Florence was the home of brilliant sculpture until I visited the Cathedral of Santa Isabel, which houses floor to ceiling works carved from the most beautiful marble I had yet seen. Of equal workmanship were the wooden pews, which appear to be of mahogany, and depict the defeat of Granada. They are reputed to be the largest carved choir in all of Europe.
The Chapel of St. Blaise, with its lapis-blue ceilings and murals, was stunning. The halos of the saints, done in gold leaf, were in remarkable condition for frescoes dating back to 1397. It was also the first cathedral I had visited that had electronic votive candles. One of the treasure rooms is filled with vestments, and I see an alter cloth that had been woven by Muslims, who had included an Arabic border around the central lozenges.
The Cloister of St. John the Kings was begun in 1389 by Rodrigo Alonzo under the direction of Archbishop Don Pedro Tenorio. It was finished in 1425. Finely wrought archways surround a courtyard which is intensely lush and beautiful.
I start thinking how to incorporate gothic arches into my hat designs …
The orange trees in the courtyard are in full fruit. There’s a roof of bird netting, presumable to keep the trees in more pristine condition. This cloister would be among the finest example of Spanish-Arabesque Gothic architecture I would see on this trip.
The ceilings surrounding the gardens are done in marquetry, and I spy a pair of stone lions passant on one of the overhead arches. I take a myriad of photos of the floor tiles, a feature I would become fixated on throughout this trip.
I wander around the Plaza de Zocodover, in and out of the wide alleys, watching workmen hang lanterns and large sun shades. I walk pass the parliament building of La Mancha which is housed in an old convent, and along the Arabel – “between walls” – one of the oldest parts of the city, built by Muslims to protect Toledo. Further down, the Bisagra Gate, on a bridge over the Tajo River, offers an exceptional viewpoint for the city.
I will remember Toledo as the city where churches, synagogues and mosques all look the same. The Synagoga de Santa Maria la Blanca was built by Muslim architects in the early 13th century, and converted to a church in 1492. I was surprised to see Islamic script carved around the doorway. Its ceiling reminds me of the ‘upside down ships’ hull” from a church I saw in Alaska, and the interior is filled with arches like those I had seen in pictures of the Mezquita in Cordoba. The Mezquita del Cristo de la Luz, Toledo’s oldest mosque, dates back to the turn of the 11th century, it’s keyhole arches facing Mecca. It too, was converted to a church less than 200 years later.
The Museo de Santa Cruz, as noteworthy for its architecture as its contents, was formerly an orphanage and a hospital. It is home to the famous Tapestry of the Astrolabes. Woven in Belgium in 1480, it combines mythology and science to explain the divine world as it was perceived during the Middle Ages.
Lunch choices are pasta, pizza and doner kebab. So I choose – gelato! But it was really good gelato, the best I’ve had outside of Venice …
I thought Florence was the most austere city of my travels until I arrived here. Toledo is rugged, but compact, and in spite of its’ hills it is a fairly easy walk as I traverse the entire outskirt of the city before heading back towards its center. I look for souvenirs to buy, but Toledo is a ‘trinket’ city, full of reproduction helmets from the Roman and Medieval periods; blades that are labeled as damascus but which do not bear the patterning; damascene plates and other items geared towards tourists. I could not find English books, or in fact many books at all.
English is not a language of choice here, and hard as I try, my limited repertoire of phrases fail, and yet people continue to speak to me in Spanish long after I have said “no habla Espanol,” a statement which is met with intolerance. It’s an interesting comparison to my trips to Italy, where nearly everyone speaks at least a smattering of English, or to Istanbul, where pantomime has evolved into an art form …
Dinner this evening is at the El Foro Cafe, where I point to a chicken and seafood paella on the photo-menu (a god-send when you have a language barrier). I think paella must be a national dish, and it is a specialty of this cafe. It arrives with seafood in shell, immersed in the rice and messy to eat, but the squid and calamari are very tender and flavorful. I am smitten by the violetta mojito, deep purple at the bottom of the glass, fading to the palest lavender at the top, and “like drinking candied violets.” I had been introduced to ‘cafe violetta’ in Genoa, and it would take me weeks of searching for the elusive elixer upon my return to Seattle …
After dinner I board a tour bus, which includes really great views of The Fortress, Toledo’s ‘castle’, perched on the top of the tallest hill in the city. It’s easy to see how difficult it must have been to have finally conquered this city …
I’m back on the road the next morning. There’s no direct route from Toledo to any other city, so it’s back to the train hub at Madrid. The landscape between Toledo and Madrid reminds me a lot of Eastern Washington, right down to the ridge that is the same shape and texture as Ahtaneum Ridge, and the red clay soil that lines the railroad tracks. About an hour outside of Toledo, olive groves give way to deciduous trees and more rugged mountains in the distance. The power polls are topped with glass transformers which make them masquerade as street lights …
Back in Madrid, the misting machines are at work in the conservatory, humidifying the court of palms. The pond is swarming with baby turtles clamoring up the cement ‘sunning’ platform, while adult turtles are vying for space at the bubbleator. At the cafe I am introduced to cafe con leche, which appears to be a shot of expresso served with half & half. The menu lists a ‘traditional breakfast’ as cafe, and either a croissant with jam, or some sort of fried pastry. I confuse the counterperson by ordering a club sandwich …
Finally, it’s time to board. The trains in Spain are newer, cleaner and much less industrial than those in Italy, and I watch a crew of men and women in bright orange coveralls, washing the outside of the windows on the train the next track over. My next destination is Cordoba, where the forecast is for 82 degrees. It’s raining back home in Seattle, and friends are pretty jealous …
For pictures of the day, please see my photo-blog at Daveno Travels.
Through personal experience, I have found that needles of bone and ivory, although retaining a sharp point longer than other materials, are also coarser and more brittle, which causes them to break easily. Bronze needles are the best for embroidery as they have a smooth surface and are more pliable than modern steel needles. A pliable needle helps to decrease sore and fatigued fingertips.
I am fond of Chinese scissors which made from iron and hold their edge well, and which are available in a variety of sizes from the bonsai section of your garden store, or your black powder / sutlers fairs if you are a reenactor. I also keep my grandfather’s pliers close at hand because it is sometimes easier to pull -rather than push- a needle through dense fabric or leather. A Chinese pin cushion and a jade pin dish round out my kit.
Learn the rest of my favorite techniques by downloading the article:
This 5-part series begins with a very brief historical overview and comparison of embroidery between East and West, and then delves into materials and technique. My intention with this series is to demonstrate how embroidery can be combined with other techniques to bring new color and texture to your own textile projects.
Download Part 1 of this series here:
Back in 2015, a milliner friend of mine asked me if I might lead a workshop for the Seaview Weaving and Fiber Arts Guild, of which she was a member. Of course, I said yes. Little did they know how much trouble I would bring through their door…
I dug out my handout on the history of a few basic embroidery stitches, illustrated with both historical and modern examples, and brought examples of my own works to further illustrate the techniques and applications that were covered in the handout (which you can download at the end of this news story).
I had been asked to develop a project for 8-20 students to work on. But recreating the same project 20 times was far too boring, so I brought 20 kits, ranging from complex multi-layer reverse applique, to trapunto, to simple applique, to simple embroidery. Some kits were flowers, some were animals, others were Celtic knotworks. Each kit came with a pattern, tracing paper or fusing, instructions, and a selection of fabrics, some of which I had partially assembled if it was one of the more complex patterns.
I presented my historical overview to a receptive group of about 15 guild members, and explained how I applied historical techniques in my own work.
Then we got to work…
Everyone found a project that was interesting to them, and some members of the class even took two kits. After two hours of tracing and sewing and pressing and more sewing, a few people seemed unwilling to put their projects down in spite of a delicious lunch waiting for us in the other room…
Afterwards, I was able to see projects that the guild members were working on, including a Ravens Tail pouch with it intricate twining. I was introduced to spun nettle, which I would love to have a chance to embroidery with some day. What a tremendously creative and talented group.
For additional photos, see the Seaview Guild Blog. You are welcome to download my handout at the link below. Feel free to share : )
One of the fun things about rebuilding a website, is combing through your archives to look for things that you need to repost, and finding things that you had forgotten you had!
Katie Cordrey wrote a piece about me for the Eco-Fashion section of Green Living Journal in Spring 2011. That article, titled Marvelous Millinery, is posted below:
Several years ago, a friend and I stumbled across these boots in a military antiques shop in Seattle (now closed). We recognized them as traditional Mongolian footwear, and were informed by the shopkeeper that they are still manufactured in UlaanBaatar for the military.
When the stitching wore through the soles, I tore the boots apart to refurbish them. This article outlines the process for putting them back together again. I have boarded a few photos from that process on Pinterest.
You can download the instructions below. I highly recommend that you cut your pattern out of tag board or lightweight cardboard and tape the pieces together to make sure that they will assemble correctly, before cutting in to your leather. Also please note that the drawings in this document are not to scale …
I returned to Istanbul in September 2011. Baha meets me at the airport, all smiles. Back at his hotel, he’s printed out a stack of Islamic designs for my hats, and I show him the hats he asked me to make for him, to sell at his hotel. We start discussing price points and promotional plans.
Price points become really tricky with the exchange rate between USD and TL, and I’m concerned about tariffs and shipping costs. I start to get a little stressed out, so I take a break.
It’s EID and the city is lit up like Disneyland. There are street vendors and kids tossing neon spinners high into the sky. I try to get some night shots of the Ayasofya and the German Fountain. By the time I get back, Baha has put my hats into the glass case he has already built in his dining area.
His hotel is full, so he has reserved a room for me at the Kybele Hotel, where I spend the night admiring the ceiling where there’s a grid of Turkish lanterns, mounted every 10″ and lit up in a festival of colored glass.
I wake up the next morning to a landscape that has changed. Sidewalk cafe tables have been banned by city ordinance. The old hotelier is gone, as is Cihan. Baha is not his sunny self. He walks me through the fashion district near the Galata Tower before we hop public transit to the Rumeli Fortress. It’s a long trip, and the door to the Rumeli is being locked just as we arrive. It’s not the last door that would close on this trip.
The next day, I go back to the Bazaar and am successful in finding the suzuri salesman, who sells me 3 pieces which I intend to cut up for hats. I buy a Turkish designs book, and note the similarities between Chinese and Turkish phoenixes and dragons. I look for the Chora Church, which Baha had suggested the last time I was here. His directions fail me so I hail a cab, but even the cabbie has trouble finding it. He drops me a few blocks away but points in the direction I need to walk to get there.
The mosaics are incredible, with tiles the size of my smallest fingernail and not always square, allowing for fine shading and shaping of the human faces. The domed and vaulted ceilings bring back memories of the Basilica in Venice, but with the addition of windows in the tops of the domes, reminiscent of the Salute Cathedral. I was surprised by the intensity of the colors.
To see my photos of the Chora Church, please see my supplemental blog at Daveno Travels.
Afterwards, I wander through a residential area of old Ottoman homes, and scale an ancient wall for a panorama view of the surrounds. I stop for a bottle of ayran and turn the corner to find a delightful, huge open air market. Arriving at the water’s edge, I hop a ferry with the intention of going north to Eyup. But the ferry turns south instead.
Rumeli fails, and now Eyup as well.
I return to the Han Hotel and ask Baha about the TurkuaZoo, which is said to have an aquarium where you can swim with the sea turtles. He doesn’t know where that is, so I Google the bus route myself. That adventure ends up as a 3 hour bus ride through another wedding gown district, and reaching the end of the line,forcing me off the bus and onto another going back the direction I came. I never find the zoo and I wonder what plan will fail next…
I find out over dinner that plans for Bodrum have fallen through. Baha suggests alternative destinations for me to visit on my own. “See what is outside of Istanbul for a couple of days. Cappadocia perhaps. Or Ephesus.” He offers to find a tour that I can afford and make those arrangements. I chose instead, the ancient Ottoman capitol of Bursa. I have not felt well for the last couple of days. I would spend the next day sick in bed, and leave for Bursa on the following day.
It’s a 6 hour trip by bus to the Boyoguzel Hotel, a modern business hotel just outside of town. Downtown Bursa is too far to reach by foot, but it’s a lovely day, so I spend the evening walking around, and find the grave of Suleyman Celebi, the author of the Mevlid, an epic poem describing the birth of Mohammed.
Further down the street is a large, elevated cement stage with a proscenium from which hang a pair of oversized Turkish shadow puppets, marking the Karagoz Cemetery. Legend has it that during the construction of the Orhan Mosque, two blacksmiths named Karagoz and Hacivat impeded work by distracting the other workers with their antics, and were beheaded by order of Sultan Orhan, an action he later regretted. In an attempt to cheer up the distraught sultan, his vizier removed his turban and made a screen, and reenacted the antics of the dead blacksmiths in shadow-play. The vizier, Sheikh Kusteri, is credited as the father of Turkish puppet theater, and Hacivat and Karagoz became staple characters.
I stop for dinner at a kebab place where a very enthusiastic cook takes me into his kitchen so I can point to what I want. A stop at the liquor store for a bottle of Raki, and a slow back up the hill, completes my day.
The next day, I hail a cab to Yesil Madrash, the Green Tomb, which turns out to be the furthest point away from the hotel, and with all the other sites lined up in a mostly straight line back up the hill. It is very early yet, so I step into a small bazaar that is housed on 3 floors of an Ottoman home. It’s a lovely place and I am closely attended to by a child who continues to talk to me long after I indicated I do not speak Turkish. I regret not having purchased anything there.
Yesil Madrash is the burial place of Sultan Mehmet I, and his sons and daughters. Unlike Christians, Muslims do not bury their dead in their places of worship. Mosques (camii) are always separate from tombs (madrash).
Upon my return home I chided myself for not making the time to visit Iznik, less than two hours away, and the home of the factories that produced the tiles for many of the buildings I visited in this country.
The video below is a 360 degree view of the interior of this tomb. For additional photos please visit Daveno Travels.
Further down the street, the Turkish Islamic Museum of Arts fills several tiny rooms surrounding an open air courtyard. There is an extensive array of artifacts, each room seems to be themed with either the type of item (coins) or the items’ usage (prayer items). Assuming that a catalog does not wait for me at the end, I start photographing items, which attracts the attention of a security guard. I am writing notes, and in spite of the language barrier, I figure out that he’s asking me not to lean on the glass.
There are cases full of ceramics in the outdoor courtyard, and I motion to my camera to make sure photography is allowed. “Yes,” he nods. I continue to photograph everything which continues to rouse their curiosity. I take a last look to make sure I haven’t missed anything, and wave goodbye. As I am standing just outside the entrance, my nearly useless map in hand, trying to figure out where next to go, the youngest guard runs up to me and presents me with an English language Bursa City Guide. “A gift,” he beams. I thank him profusely and sit down with it for the next 20 minutes. Small gestures make such a big difference…
Here are a few of my favorites from this museum.
Just outside of the Yesil Madrash, I find a handful of street merchants. One is peddling small antique trinkets and silver by the ounce. The ring I have not yet found in Istanbul, I find here — a prettily worked silver bezel surrounding an onyx cabochon, and a silver thimble, covered with granulation, which must be the most perfect thimble ever (and which now I cannot sew without).
The Cultural Museum, previously a dervish lodge and then a library, now houses a collection of costumes and textiles. I wander around, completely alone, no guards or attendants in sight. Sunlight streams through the windows and reflects off the cases, which makes photography difficult. I also wondered about UV damage, especially to the metallic thread embroideries. Here are more of my favorites.
Prayers are in progress at the Ulu Camii, so I check out the Kozahan (the Silk Bazaar). Built in 1491, it is stocked to the ceiling with every type of silk scarf, apparel and towel you could possibly imagine. A small import shop at the entrance of another han attracts my attention. I should have bought a lamp here but did not, and the filigree belts which the clerk pulls off the wall en masse for me, also sadly stay behind. Other bazaars sell modern goods for the locals and cheap trinkets for everyone else.
I find a kebab place to eat lunch, and have my first durum which I like a lot, a tortilla filled with a tiny bit of meat, pickle and tomato. I mill around until 2:30 and the end of afternoon prayer. It was interesting to note that in spite of there being a women’s gallery, the only people exiting the mosque are men.
Ulu Camii is the largest mosque in Bursa, and is also the most distinctive mosque I have seen in Turkey thus far.
Children run around, and a couple of girls are rolling around on the carpet. Women in headscarves, in spite of the secluded women’s gallery in the corner (there’s no elevated gallery here), prayed in groups of twos and threes, along with a scattering of men. It was interesting to watch ‘only men’ entering and exiting the mosques at prescribed prayer times, but the women entered with the tourists. Men and women prayed here separately but simultaneously on the main floor, with no screens or barriers between them.
I backtrack to the Orhan Camii, where a custodian is vacuuming between prayer services. I quickly take a few photos, pull all of the change out of my pocket and put it in the offering box.
Nearby is the tomb of Orhan Gazi. His turban is perched on his sarcophagus which is overlaid with a heavily embroidered tapestry. The pillar is one of four that support the domed ceiling. The walls are whitewashed with limestone. It was very airy and beautiful. See more of my photos here. I find a public park with a directional sign listing distances for neighboring countries (an installation art piece) and several shady benches. I take a coffee break and study my map. A man sits down a little too close to me but does not initiate contact and leaves after about 10 minutes. It was the only time I would ever feel unsafe in Turkey.
Bursa is a city of sultan’s tombs. A silver domed building that had been the chapel of a Christian monastery, was converted to become the burial place of Orhan’s son, Osman Gazi, who died during the Siege of Bursa in the 14th century. The carved sarcophagus is inlaid with mother-of-pearl and surrounded by a brass balistrade. His turban rests on top, as is the burial custom for the sultans in this region. It is done in blues and whites and is very calming.
I tour the 17th Century Ottoman House Museum, believed to be the birthplace of Sultan Mehmed. You will find those photos here.
I find the Uluumay Ottoman Costume and Jewelry Museum just minutes before it was scheduled to close. The curator gives me a personal tour of room after room of costumes, textiles, jewelry and other artifacts that he has been collecting for the past 50 years. It is housed in an old Ottoman school, only large enough to exhibit a quarter of his collection. Completely accessorized mannequins of folk costumes from all over Central Asia and the Balkans, are displayed on turntables in glassed off sections of the room. Photography is not allowed and of course these things have not been cataloged. But the presentation is exquisite and had I had more time I would have asked to sit and sketch things. The Hurriyet published an article about this museum the year after I was there.
I head back up the hill to the hotel and find dinner at a kebab place about a block away. Seated at a sidewalk table, I watch the relentless stream of traffic just feet in front of me, and watch in awe as a man in a wheelchair bullies his way across the intersection. Taxis pull straight into oncoming traffic and block the flow until they can push their way through.
Motorcycles hop off and onto the sidewalks. Right of way seems to go to whoever is fearless enough to take it. In Istanbul there are crosswalks and walk signals, but those are a rarity here. Women with children and strollers take the same risks and are awarded the same care as anyone else. By the end of the day, I find myself running in front of cars and buses, not being assured that I would make it across the street…
I spend the rest of the evening wandering around the residential areas, admiring the architecture. I have figured out the high-speed ferry, a 2 hour trip which will return me to Istanbul tomorrow morning.
The following morning I hail a cab to the ferry dock. The high-speed ferry is the most efficient but also the most boring route between here and Istanbul, with nothing to see but the flat, expansive Marmara Sea. I purchase a plate of the egg and phyllo dish that is a prevalent breakfast dish here, and coffee with milk, like a latte. I find a table but discover that the entire ferry is assigned seating. I locate my seat after sharing that knowledge with the tourists are seated there, and spend the remainder of the trip writing in my journal.
Today is my last day in Istanbul. I am finally recovered from my maladies and try to cram as much stuff into my remaining hours as I possibly can. I had hoped to see the Orient Express but it left a few hours earlier. Baha shows me the way to a lamp maker so I can buy an Istanbul-made lamp like those that cover the ceilings of the Kybele and Hotel Han. I spend the rest of my day shopping for hatmaking materials along a “Textiles Row” of shops near the Grand Bazaar, and come home with bags of laces, woven trims and metallic thread appliques.
I take one more walk through Gulhane Park and Sultanahmet Square before returning to the Han Hotel. Baha offers me an hour of his time and a small bowl of chorba, a final gesture of hospitality. A taxi arrives three hours later. My hats that I had hoped to sell here would arrive in Seattle by DHL a few weeks later.
“Inshallah you will visit Istanbul again some day,” he says, as the door to my taxi slams shut and I am whisked back to Ataturk Airport for my flight home.
Baha invites me to Captain’s Table for breakfast, which he promptly covers with an extensive array of dishes. We are joined by an Australian woman who is also leaving today. Baha offers to take us to the bazaar to buy suzani (the embroidered bedspreads) and ceramics. I don’t think I can cram anything more into my suitcases but the offer is more than the Australian and I can resist.
The Australian finishes breakfast and heads upstairs to pack. Baha shows me YouTube clips of Turkish tulum, and a traditional Turkish men’s line dance called Horon. He then asks me if I know what this is called, as he pulls up another line dance. “Riverdance” I respond, and tell him it’s Irish clogging. This cultural exchange would continue between us by phone and Facebook for rest of the summer.
At the Bazaar, Baha takes us to the vendor who sells the suzani for his hotel. We are offered tea and seats. We make our selections and are each gifted with a suzani pillow case. The embroidery on mine is incomplete, which makes me smile. Baha also notices and pantomimes with needle and thread, indicating that I could finish the embroidery on it myself. I am also gifted with a silk ikat headscarf.
I photograph a framed goldworked section of an Ottoman robe that is leaning against a wall behind a pile of other things. The Australian takes off to join her friends, and Baha takes me to Iznik Ceramic, managed by Tolga Neidim. I sort through stacks of handmade tiles, and select a few in traditional Turkish motifs. A blue and white Turkish cup rounds out my purchase there.
We stop for lunch at a sidewalk cafe: a kebab roll, with a huge mound of pickled cucumbers, grilled peppers, and cilantro onto a plastic placemat at a table that reminded me of a lunch counter at Woolworths. A beverage called ayran which reminded me of kiefer. There are no circles on my map today, so I decide to keep my sightseeing to within a few blocks of the hotel.
I find the Ibrahim Pasa Palace, a building that dates back to the Ottoman period which houses the Islamic Art and Ethnology Museum. It’s a treasure trove that would make my friends Sunjan and Khalja want to move here. A nomads tent, called a kara cadir in Turkish, woven from black goat hair with center pole supports, much like a Bedouin tent. Home interiors and women’s clothing from the end of the Ottoman period. A lantern built around a Chinese dragon pattern blue and white porcelain drum. Wood and copper doors and 13th century stone reliefs. Sarcophagi in carved wood and stone. Kor’ans that I could not bring myself to photograph. Anatolian kilims that were woven in one piece, a rare find as they are traditionally woven in two or three sections and then stitched together.
It has grown chilly and overcast, just like my first day in Istanbul. I try to play the “What’s for dinner” game with Cihan, who embarks on a lengthy conversation with Baha before departing for the kitchen. Baha shares with me that there had been a recent death in his social circle. I had also lost several friends and family recently, and we talked about that a little. I repeated what he had told me earlier, “that only Allah knows when weddings and funerals will occur.” There was little else to be said.
Dinner arrives: potatoes, carrots, and lamb ribs in broth, with a side dish of rice. A nice, simple comfort food. Baha will catch up with me later this evening for a final evening out. I finish packing, settle up my bill and drop my suitcase off at the concierge desk.
Oh look, there’s Cihan! It’s like he never leaves …We engage in an incredibly topic-varied conversation, which I step away from whenever he needed to attend to customers. He is a very articulate and intelligent young man. Near 9 PM, he ducks into the Barbecue House, and emerges with a single plate, two pieces of baklava and two forks. These guys! There is no end to the hospitality here…
Baha arrives and we catch the tram across the Galata Bridge, then climb a very steep winding alley of stairs to the base of the Galata Tower in the Beyoglu district. I point out buildings with facades that look like the ones I saw in Genoa. He shows me his favorite church, Sant’Antonio di Padova Church which is locked behind an iron gate. It is the largest Roman Catholic Church in Istanbul, built by the Italian community in 1905 on the site of the original church which had been built in 1725, but later demolished.
We spend the evening walking around and looking at architecture. We thread through crowded streets to an alley and up to the Asmali Mescid, and later the Cicek Pasaji (Flower Passage) where we listen to musicians as they roam from one table to the next, one of which is playing something that looks like a hammer dulcimer.
We hail a cab back to the Sultanahmet, just after midnight. I am the last guest in his hotel, and since he can sleep the day tomorrow, he sits up with me in the dining area. So we talk… about my Facebook albums that he looked at the other night. The route my plane would take over the North Pole and Canada on its return to Seattle. If there are sharks in Puget Sound. Cars, and sports, and music. Whatever small talk our tired brains could manage…
The shuttle arrives, and Baha loads my book-heavy luggage into the van. He gives me a warm European-style send-off and promise to keep in touch. It has been a most remarkable trip, and I will never, ever forget this place…
My first stop this morning is Ayasofya, the lines have not yet formed so I walk right in. Even though this is no longer a mosque, I cover my head and remove my shoes within a few feet of the entrance because it feels wrong not to do so.
When Sultan Mehmed conquered Constantinople in 1453, the Ayasofya was converted to a mosque. Great care was taken to preserve the integrity of the structure as well as the sacredness of the space. Four minarets were added between the 15th-16th centuries, two of them built by Mimar Sinan. This stunning minbar (the imam’s pulpit) dates to the late 16th century and is one of the most beautiful I saw in any mosque.
One of the domes in this building inspired this silk and brocade hat…
I board a train and head across the Galata Bridge to the Kabatas ferry terminal and the Princes Islands.
I am among the first to embark, and find the perfect seat on the starboard bow with an unobstructed view, a place to hang my purse, and a rail to prop my feet up on. I replay the pleasant conversations from last night as I gaze down into a jade colored sea filled with jellyfish, and watch as three dolphins break the surface of the Marmara. The Golden Horn and Bosphorus sails are nice, but this is the ferry trip that gives you a true feel for the immensity of this place. Twenty million people live here, in a city whose skyline along both sides of the coast is unbroken.
There are about 5 stops on this run, the final of which is Buyukada, where we debark into a town filled with Victorian era houses covered with varying degrees of gingerbread, some with Indonesian peaks, slopes and other design influences that do not strike me as Turkish. The architecture and flora here are dramatically different from the mainland and it feels very tropical. I can see why this is such a popular mini-vacation place for the city-dwellers.
I take a short walk before allowing myself to be talked into taking a tour of the island by horse drawn surrey. I opt for the shorter of the two tours, which winds its way to the top of the hill, through residences and parks and twisty windy roads. We stop at the top to water the horse, and trot back to the city center, past vendors selling silk flower hair wreaths, and the most expensive gelato I have had so far this trip. It’s a very short wait for the ferry back to the mainland.
I return home after a very pleasant day, topped by very well timed transit schedules. I’ve got two days of photos to upload and have given up trying to transcribe my journal due to wanting to pay attention to more immediate things. After dinner I settle my tab and ask to have my boarding pass printed. But there’s a problem with printing it. Baha calls Lufthansa to get it sorted out. And then, a remarkable thing occurs…
“Your flight does not leave until the 19th…”
An extra day! Baha suggests that we celebrate, and we join Erhan and his lady friend for drinks at Cagaloglu Hamami, one the oldest and finest in the city, where we sit with a small group of local hotelliers. Baha instructs me in Turkish etiquette — to stand and shake hands with people as they enter and leave the room, and how to properly clink glasses during toasts. I am asked to relate the story about my lost taxi driver, which elicits much laughter from the group.
Afterwards, Baha takes me across the street to the Kybele, the hotel which adjoins his. “Like museum,” he says; It is similar in structure to the Han but larger, and filled floor to ceiling with glass lanterns, yurta bands and other antiques. We take the very slow glass lift to the roof that the Kybele shares with the Han. The view is spectacular, made only slightly less perfect by the absence of stars…
For additional photos from this day, please visit Daveno Travels.
I begin my day at a Turkish Bathhouse, called a hamami.
Tarihi Gedikpasa has the largest dome of any hamami in Istanbul and is one of the most important Ottoman historical buildings in this city. It serves both men and women in segregated parts of the bath. I check in at the front desk and am led to a room with a bed and a chest, where I could disrobe. I wrap myself in the thin striped cotton towel that they handed me on the way to the room, slip on rubber flip flops, and lock the door behind me. I am led into the bath.
The heat nearly takes my breath away. A series of domes peppered with round glass windows at the top, allow beams of sunlight to illuminate the marble lined room. I am led to one of three marble fountains along the wall, where I am doused with water from a plastic bowl, which is then handed to me so l can continue to wash. I am then motioned to lay down on the large marble platform under the center dome. It feels like it is heated. I am wrapped in the now-soaked striped towel but am motioned to take it off and to lay on top of it instead.
In an American spa, you are met with white coated attendants who drape you discreetly in a comfortable but clinical setting. My Turkish attendant is a middle-aged woman in a black two-piece swimsuit. She begins…
I am scrubbed head to toe with a heavy luffa mitt. Sit up for more scrubbing. Lay back down as a cotton sheet filled with suds is laid across my back, giving the sensation of being smothered in a blanket of heavy cream. More washing. More turning. Rinsing. Back again for massage and hair. Rinse again. Sit and steam …
The final step is being led to a pool of cool water that did not smell of salt but which made me feel more buoyant than I know I am. The pool is blue tiled, and under another dome with shafts of light coming down through the small squarish windows and piercing the water. The photo below is not the ceiling of this hammami but is of a similar one elsewhere in Istanbul. I am floating as much in shafts of light through heavy windows, as in the cool water of the pool…
There are traces of frescoes throughout this hamami, but no paint could survive so many centuries of steam. I wondered what deals had been struck, what intrigues planned, what gossip shared or weddings arranged over the centuries here. I walk out into a common area, where I am dried off with a heavy Turkish towel and shown back to my changing room. If I lived here, I’d do this at least once a week …
Completely refreshed, I walk to the Grand Bazaar for lunch. My waiter is half Turkish, half German, raised in Boston. My meal is a chicken dish cooked in filo, served in tomato sauce, accompanied by yogurt and garnished with french fries, a culinary detail which continues to baffle me. The salad is the traditional mix of tomato, onion and cilantro, almost like a salsa.
I spend my lunch time watching people. Turks refer to East Indians as Blacks. I do not know what Turks call Africans, or if they make a distinction. People who work in the service trades need to be competent in at least 5 languages and the successful ones like Cihan have working knowledge of closer to ten. The hospitality and general attitudes towards others here borders on the unreal. People offer to help you almost before you ask, from trying to give you directions, to helping mothers with strollers as they traverse stairs and trams.
It’s time to find the University of Istanbul, and behind it, Suleyman Camii. I discover a street of craftsmen that I nicknamed “Metalsmith Alley”.
I arrive at the mosque when it was closed for prayer so I try unsuccessfully to locate Barbarossa’s statue and tomb. There are several major restoration projects occurring in Istanbul right now, and much of the Suleyman complex is not accessible. I buy a traditional pair of hand knit wool socks from a vendor just outside the wall. The purchase takes nearly all of my remaining cash. Noticing this, the vendor smiles and slips a bottle of water into my bag before sending me on my way.
The colors are very sedate compared to other mosques and I found the Suleyman Camii to be among the most calming of any I spent time in in Istanbul. The sound of tens of pairs of shoes dropping to the marble step in unison as men and women left after prayers, is a sound that still reverberates in my ears, weeks after having heard it…
On my way home I shop a street lined with button shops, fabric shops, and more kitchen shops than I have seen in one place with the possible exception of Chinatown. I finally find the tiny spoons which complete my glass tea sets. I visit Sinan’s tomb, a very modest structure tucked away under a wisteria arbor. I think I walk past a synagogue, mosque-shaped but with a Star of David window above its door. I also find an English book store and allow myself to splurge, having decided days ago to trade my carpet for an Islamic library.
With daylight still left, I head to the Galata Bridge. The top deck was studded with an array of food vendors hawking roasted corn, roasted chestnuts, and savory breads. The rail is lined with fishermen, pulling small silver smelt-like fish out of the sea on their multi-hook lines. I sit down on the curb and watch the boats traffic in and out, pushing the surf up over the retaining wall. I return home via the bottom deck of the bridge, which is lined with restaurants.
I now want to figure out if I can stay here an extra day. Plans for tomorrow include the Ayasofya and perhaps the art museum.
Back at Hotel Han, I am seated at Captain’s Table for dinner. Cihan confers with Baha and suggests a shrimp/tomato/cheese casserole which is served sizzling on a brazier. It’s a nice presentation. I order Raki. Cihan brings two glasses to the table, one filled with water, the other with a single shot of Raki, and pauses over the shot with a bottle of water, but I wave him away. Both he and Baha watch me drink it, straight up. It tastes like ouzo.
Baha asks what my plan is for tomorrow. “The Ayasofya and the museum,” I say. “You must go to Princes Islands. Very Important.” And he instructs me to take the second train station past the art museum to the end of the line which is the Kabatas ferry terminal. One island has a castle, another has a famous church, another has very nice houses. And he makes notations on my map. He gets a phone call and says he needs to leave to meet up with his family. He grabs his jacket, and invites me to come along.
I experience Turkish traffic from the car’s point of view as he weaves through streets that don’t even look passable. We arrive at Lasos Fish Restaurant, where a small group have already gathered. Baha introduces me to Mustafa, one of his friends. Raki is ordered, and a little later a plate of tuna sashimi and onion arrives, followed by a plate of melon wedges and sheep cheese. Mustafa is quite animated and has an opinion on a lot of topics. I seem to be an anomaly, “that American woman who drinks her Raki straight.’ Mustafa asks me if I am Irish. At the end of the evening Baha walks me to the cab stop, gives instructions to the driver, and sends me on my way. And a new adventure begins…
The cabbie get off the freeway, and stops at a cab stop to ask for directions to the hotel. And again a few blocks later. And again. Between stops and turns he mutters “Hotel Han” and “Allah Allah” and throws his hands up in the air. A dry cleaner is shutting down for the night, the cabbie stops to ask him directions. Some random guy is standing on a street corner and cabbie stops for directions but I don’t think Random Guy speaks Turkish.
We get to the walled city and I start pointing at signs for Yerebatan and the Cistern.? I also point straight ahead at the Ayasofya because I can walk home from there. There’s more muttering of “Hotel Han Hotel Han” and “Allah Allah,” and the raising of hands to sky. By now I’m the one praying to Allah… I really want out of this cab but I cannot get him to stop. I point once more to the sign for Ayasofya which he takes literally, and starts driving across the pedestrian plaza to the mosque. NO!
Finally, after eight stops for directions and a countless litanies of “Hotel Han Hotel Han Allah Allah,” we arrive at the Hotel Han. His meter says more than TL35 but he only charges me what he had quoted. I tell him “Good Job” and we both laugh, though who was the greater relieved between the two of us, would be a pretty hard call…
For more photos of the day, please visit my supplemental blog at Daveno Travels.
I am up and ready to go by 7:30, having three days remaining with a long list of things left to see. I step out onto my balcony to see that the sidewalk across the intersection has sprouted a rainbow of tables, and a grey haired man with a black cap and a brass shoe shine kit. I head downstairs to catch an early breakfast and am greeted by Baha and Erhan, one of his brothers, who apologize for the construction noise last night. “No worries,” I say, “not your fault…”
I decide to visit a hamami (Turkish bath) tomorrow as many sites are closed on Mondays. Baha makes a reservation for me at the Gedikpasa Hamami, a 15 minute walk from here. He asks me what my plan today is. “The Science Museum,” I say, “and the Galata Tower”. “Where is your map” he asks, which has become our daily routine. “You must go here”, he says, circling a fashion district near the Galata Tower. “And here,” he adds, circling a mosque at the north end of the Golden Horn which I must take a ferry and then a funicular to reach. “It is very important mosque” he says with intense earnest. Hmmm. That’s not something I had planned for, but I’ve learned not to question his advice.
I hurry on to the Islamic Science Museum, eager to see how it compares to the Galileo Museum in Florence. There are world globes in the entryway, but unlike the ones in Florence, these are not enclosed in glass. The first room is filled with astrolabes! Case after case, about a third of them are originals. I start snapping pictures of the originals and their accompanying signage, but take few notes as I expect that information will be in the museum catalog. Perhaps I’ll even be fortunate enough to find a replica of something here for Payne in the gift shop.
The next room is filled with sundials and clocks. The next one, siege weapons. No cases! No ropes! I am furiously fighting the urge to sit on the floor and play with All The Things…
I stroll through rooms of medical instruments, weather instruments, early steam engines, distilleries, kilns, a few books, a few maps. I reach the end. Where’s the museum store? No gift shop? No catalog? ARGH!!! Had I known that I would have taken better notes…
I take a short respite in Gulhane Park to watch the herons and the small green parrots which nest in the tree hollows. After wandering around the fountains and ponds, I am off to find the ferry…
Today’s lesson is that one cannot always rely on maps. There is construction at the Galata Bridge and I cannot follow the waterfront through to the ferry dock for the Golden Horn. I’m lost. The sun is intense today and I sit down on the curb, pulling my shawl over my head for shade. After a few minutes, my attention is drawn by a parade of people on the other side of the street. Directly across from me is the blue and white sign marking the ferry dock for the Golden Horn. I cross the street and watch where a crowd of mostly East Indians are scrambling over piles of broken concrete, winding their way towards the water. When in doubt, follow the crowd, chances are that they’re going to the same destination as you are…
I arrive at the ferry ticket office and ask for a round trip fare, following along with the pantomime that the ticket officer is outlining on his desk to make sure we are both talking about the same thing. He gives me two brass tokens, one for each way. I pop one into the turnstile and wait inside the building.
A short ferry ride criss-crosses this waterway to the large bay at the end, where one gets off the ferry and walks to the funicular. I wait in line for about an hour for a six person tram car that takes a very short ride to the top. The tram car drops us off at the base of a graveyard. I pass a restaurant, and more graves marked by blooming iris. And houses. A passerby tells me I’m going in the wrong direction. It is nearing sunset and I may not reach the mosque in time to enter it, but at least I will be able to tell Baha that I came and I saw.
There is an entire city up here! There’s a bus. And shops. And more restaurants, all perched on top of this vertical graveyard. I see a red sign that looks out of place, and turn onto the path. There’s a group of people waiting at the top, near a gate. Thinking I have arrived at the mosque, I pull my shawl over my hair, and find a place to stand. I see a group of women and try to move closer to them, but the air is thick with emotion and so I keep my distance. Then I observe a cluster of men gathered off in the trees near a grave. Women start to stand up and kiss each other. I start to back away as I realize these kisses are not in greeting, but in comfort.
I am at a funeral…
I exit as discreetly as I can, thankful that I did not intrude on them to ask directions. After several more minutes, still surrounded by graves and those visiting them, I see the minarets of a mosque. I pass a young boy wearing the circumcision clothing I saw in the shop windows the day I visited the Grand Bazaar. I turn the corner and find myself in a courtyard, surrounded by shops and filled with people. A few steps further brings me face-to-face with two bridal couples who have just exited the Eyup Sultan Camii.
I see a long line of people carrying bottled water and take-out meals. Two men are handing out programs, so either there’s a wedding, or prayer is soon to begin. I find a place to stand near the wall where I can watch unobtrusively. I see women enter a stairwell and take off their shoes. The staircase leads to an enclosed walkway with stained glass panels, stretching over the courtyard. I follow the women in, take off my shoes, cover my head, and walk up the stairs.
There are women praying in the walkway, facing the stained glass. Through the windows on the other side, I look down into the courtyard where the mealtime pandemonium is starting to subside. I sit down next to the wall and continue to observe. A few women alternately stand and kowtow. One is on her cell phone. There are children running everywhere. Two other women sit with a prayer book in their lap but do not seem to be referencing it as they converse with each other. To my left, an alcove where women are sitting with heads covered, but not in prayer, or in fact in any form of obvious activity. The imam’s calls to prayer has begun…
I do not know how long I have been sitting here. Finally, my curiosity takes over and I stand up and quietly move into the alcove. And then I look up. Unbelievably, I am standing inside the women’s balcony of Eyup Camii.
The wall in front of me is an iron screen, separating the women’s balcony from the men in the main mosque below. I sit down next to the screen, and peer thorough. An imam is preaching, breaking his pace frequently with sips from his water bottle. Men are sitting on the floor all helter-skelter. There are water bottles, cell phones, papers and books near some of them. Some of the men are trying to control small boys. Unlike the women who are physically engaged in prayer, the men are not following the same patterns of standing and kowtowing.
There are doors in the screen about the size of a child’s face, one is open and hung with a string of green prayer beads. It’s a perfect camera shot that I do not take because it would also capture the men at prayer. I put my camera away and listen to the imam. After a while, the men join in as a chorus. I stay a few minutes longer before departing, humbled and moved by the experience of having witnessed a prayer service from behind the screen, at sunset, at this most holy place in the city.
I walk back to the brick road and am surprised to find that within a few minutes I arrive at street level. Had I known that I would have never waited in line for the funicular. I cross the street and walk back to the ferry dock, slip my token into the turnstile and take a seat in a nearly empty ferry station. It is a 45 minute wait for the next ferry and people slowly fill the station. Finally, the incoming ferry docks and offloads, and we push and prod each other through the double doors, across the rough wooden planks and find seats for the sail home. The sun is setting, the fiery sky reflecting onto the waters of the Golden Horn. What an incredible view.
I reach the Hotel Han and find Cihan at his usual post. “Choose please,” I say to him with all the energy I have left. I am ushered inside when the weather turns cold and I am seated at the Captain’s table, where Baha joins me for a dinner of lamb on a bed of pistachios and cooked greens, rice, fries and yogurt, accompanied by a glass of Yakut wine. I relate the day’s events, and thank him for sending me on this quest. Baha responds with “only Allah knows when weddings and funerals will occur.”
Upstairs, I pack my bags. Two days remain and I need to make time to buy another suitcase if I need to. I have an appointment at the hamami tomorrow at 9:30, and then I plan to see the palace of Suleyman the Magnificent, and Barbarossa’s tomb, and the Galata Tower if time allows.
I arrived here, wanting to leave immediately. Now I do not want to leave at all …
I awaken from first decent sleep I’ve had since arriving here, to sun streaming through the embroidered and sequined curtain. What a glorious, sunny day! After the traditional breakfast that I now look forward to every morning of peynir cheese, oil-cured olives, sweet breads, and french bread with today’s pair of homemade jams, I consult my new map, and set out to follow the train tracks to the waterfront for a ferry to the Rumeli Fortress.
I find the Sirkeci train station, the arrival point of the legendary Orient Express. I stop to take photos of the cute little steam engine that sits in the yard along side the station. I had hoped to come to Istanbul on this train, which ran for nearly a century before shutting down in 1977. An Orient Express run by the Venice Simpleton company now runs only twice a year, departing out of London.
I find the Eminönü ferry dock but am outwitted by the ticket machines. I ask for assistance from one of the clerks who redirects me to the Bosphorus cruise dock. I grudgingly trudge north, and buy a ticket for TL25 instead of the TL7 that the ferry would have cost. By the time I board, there’s no seating available on the upper deck, but plenty of room below on old wooden seats that remind me of ships from the ’40’s.
We pull away from the dock, and I see the waterfront side of the Ayasofya and the Sirkeci train station, and a little later, the minarets of the Blue Mosque. The skyline is studded with mosques and minarets. We pass the small Ortaköy Camii, and next to it, the Esma Sultan Yalisi, a 19th century mansion that was used to store tobacco during the 20th century.
After we pass under the Bosphorus Bridge, I queue up for the WC (restroom). The expressions on the faces of the German women in front of me make me wish my German wasn’t so rusty. I find out the cause when my turn comes to use the Bayern (women’s room).
I am introduced to a traditional Turkish toilet… an oblong ceramic piece with a very shallow bowl, a hole, and two textured areas where you place your feet. Now I know why the German women are grimacing and shaking their hands. The toilet reeks as any pit privy does, and I wonder if the Germans understood that the water tap and pitcher at your right foot is there to flush the toilet as well as take care of any other needs. One more experience checked off my bucket list (no pun intended).
The Rumeli Hisari comes into view. It is expansive and I am disappointed that the boat does not stop here.
A pair of yogurt vendors board at the port of Kanlica. One sells you a yogurt, the other hands you a packet of powdered sugar and a spoon. The yogurt is crusty on top and really good.
Beyond Kanlica we reach Rumeli Kavagi, where the strait narrows and is thought to be the site of the ‘Clashing Rocks’ from Homer’s epic ‘Jason and the Argonauts.’ During the Byzantine period a large column was erected as a warning to ships. It remains a treacherous part of the strait, even with modern day navigational equipment.
We reach our final destination, the small fishing village of Anadolu Cavagi that sits at the base of a hill, crested by Yoros Kalesi.
Following directions and maps seems to be beyond me lately, and I am approached by a waiter from the nearby restaurant, whom I try to ignore until I realize that he’s trying to point me towards the castle. The road up the hill is pretty steep, taking me past a cemetery, through a maze of opportunistic eateries, and up to the ruins of the fortress.
A ruin which is closed for renovation…
I content myself with wandering around the back side. This is the closest I will get to the Black Sea this trip, as the rest of the land on this side is restricted to military access. I turn around and head back to the head of the path, just in time to see a group of men old enough to know better, scrambling over the locked iron gate at the entrance to the fortress. That seems to be a good way to get arrested …
Treading down the stone stairs is a little treacherous, and I am mindful of the patches of broken glass. Down the path, past the ‘serf’ with the chickens and shanty house, past a restaurant, further down the stairs past a play yard with a wooden swing set, a wooden teeter totter taller than most adult men, and a number of hammocks. It’s inviting but I opt to continue down the hill.
The boat schedule shows that I still have time for lunch, so I head back to the waiter who pointed me to the castle. My eye contact is returned with a big smile as he seats me for lunch. I choose swordfish, cooked on a small grill just feet from my table. I look around at a terrain built on the side of a hill, with outdoor cafes under tarp roofs, foliage and intense sunlight that make me think more of Greece than Turkey.
I hold up my hand to get the waiter’s attention and my check.
I wander down towards the ferry dock, stopping for a gelato and looking for the elusive silver ring that I ultimately will never find this trip. I buy a glass evil eye key chain from a young gypsy woman in the square. The Hotel Han attaches glass evil eyes to their room keys. It’s the small things that serve as the sweetest reminders…
I stake a place near the door of the ferry terminal, since the first ones in line get the best seats (though that often means a 45 minute wait). I read a sign at the terminal building describing Andalolu Kavagi as the customs point during the Roman era. The village industries included fishing, gardening and serving the ships while waiting for favorable winds to the Black Sea. When the ferry arrives, I take a seat inside next to a window, in hopes of getting some shots of the Rumeli Hisari and perhaps a nap. Between naps I am rewarded…
Back at the hotel, the young waiter, whose name is Cihan, stands and smiles as he waits for our nightly game of ‘What’s For Dinner’. Baha later invites me to what I now call the Captain’s Table for a cup of coffee and small talk about soccer and football, and my hats.
After dinner, I return to Gulhane (Tulip) Park, which surrounds the Topkapi Palace. The birds I couldn’t recognize by voice, turn out to be grey herons. The tops of the trees are filled with their nests, and I break out my binoculars for a better look. What a spectacular sight! More pairs of birds than I can count, building nests and mating, puffing out their chests and making a racket with their calls. I note the location of the Science Museum which I will visit tomorrow.
I go to my room to download the photos from the day. Construction continues and the building starts to shake as heavy equipment seems to slam into the side of the hotel’s foundation. It felt like an earthquake that lasted for hours, but at least it wasn’t jack hammers. I doze off and on until finally, at about 2 AM, quiet reigns. I learn later that the heavy work must be done at night as trucks are not allowed on these streets during the day during tourist season. There appear to be no sound ordinances here at all…
By Heather Daveno, 1988
The Secret History of the Mongols was written for the royal Mongol family after the death of Chinghis Khan in 1227 AD. It details the history of the Mongol peoples from the birth of the first Mongol, Batachikhan, through the ascension of Ogodei Khan to the Mongolian throne. The Secret History is considered a primary source for the genealogy of the ruling families of Mongolia up to the beginning of the 14th century.
I compiled this list of names from my copy of The Secret History as adapted by Paul Khan, published by North Point Press, San Francisco, 1984. I intended it as a resource for the Offices of Heraldry for the Society of Creative Anachronism, as well as any LARP or gaming groups that may find it useful. The names are in alphabetical order, followed by gender (m/f) and page number for reference. Translation, clan affiliation and other notes from the text are included. Tribal spellings are taken directly from the text and may not be consistent throughout this catalog.
After having lost this file for several years due to a series of technology crashes, I found a copy online at the Mongolian University Library, which allowed me to reconstruct my printable list which you can download here.
Many thanks to Crystal Lin Smithwick, whose assistance in setting up the original table on my original website, was invaluable.
For additional information on medieval Mongolian naming practices, please click here.
“All warfare is based on deception… Feign disorder, and crush him. If he is secure at all points, be prepared for him. If he is in superior strength, evade him. If your opponent is of choleric temper, seek to irritate him. Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant. If he is taking his ease, give him no rest. If his forces are united, separate them. Attack him where he is unprepared, appear where you are not expected.” — from ” The Art of War” by Sun Tzu
Although Chinghis and Sun Tzu were not contemporaries, much of the opening quote applies to Mongolian warfare, where deception formed a basis of battle strategy, and combined with high levels of discipline, organization and personal strength to make the Mongolian army a fierce force to be reckoned with. The Mongols believed that their Great Khan was directed by God to conquer and rule the world. Resistance to him was resistance to God and punishable by death. Conquest on the scale envisioned by Chinghis¹ needed a high degree of discipline and organization. Their power lay in tribal confederation and non-assimilation of foreign ways.
The Mongolian Army – Structure
The Mongolian Army – Uniforms, Armor and Weapons
White was a sacred color, reserved for the Khan, whose armor and tunic were white or white and gold. He typically rode a white mount. (I hypothesize that white did not become a mourning color in Asia until the disastrous defeat of the Mongolian forces during their failed attempt to invade Japan in 1274 and 1281.) Bahadur wore black armor, a black tunic with red facings, and rode a black horse with a red leather saddle. (The uniforms for all others, as well as the provisions they carried, are described in my article.)
The iron helmet was covered with lacquered leather (I presume to avoid rust) and had a horsetail crest. Rank was denoted by a pair of red ribbons, which hung from the crown and down the back. (It is my believe that the Manchurian hats with their upturned fur brims and ribbons down the back, evolved from Mongolian army caps.)
Mongolian archers wore a stone ring on their right thumb, which they used to release the bowstring (rather than their fingers), which increased the velocity and speed of release of the arrow. Each man carried 2 quivers, which held about 30 arrows each.
The horse was the most prized possession the Mongol owned. Steppe horses were renowned for their courage and endurance. They only needed to be watered once a day, and they could dig for grass under the snow, which eliminated the army’s need to carry feed.
Each warrior had between 3-20 horses, which allowed them to ride non-stop. A Mongolian horseman could string a bow from his saddle, as well as eat and sleep on horseback. Herds of up to 10,000 head accompanied the army and were divided by color, which served as another definition of rank.
The Mongolian Army – Training and Tactics
The harsh and demanding lifestyle provided Mongolian soldiers with endurance, mobility and other warlike qualities. Mongolians were also very dedicated to their leaders, and were highly disciplined. Their European counterparts however, went to war with little training or discipline, very little experience in fighting as a unit, and as often as not, went to war for profit under the guise of religious crusade. The feudal system allowed men to lead based on their wealth rather than on tactical ability.
Training for the hulega, or “Great Hunt”, conducted like a campaign and designed to teach discipline, strategy and unity under command.
The most often used method of attack was the tulghma, or “Standard Sweep”, with light cavalry attacking at right angles, and heavy cavalry s charging from the rear.
Another favorite maneuver was the mangudai.A light cavalry of suicide troops charged the enemy, then retreated, leading the enemy into an ambush of heavy cavalry. Units communicated with each other with a variety of signals, including whistling arrows or flags by day, torches at night.
Dispatches were sent via courier, through a pony express system called the Yam. Roads became thoroughfares throughout the Mongolian Empire, with rest stations and fresh horses every 25 miles. This allowed couriers to ride 120 miles a day. Roads also allowed the army to move columns of soldiers at great distances, making simultaneous thrusts, surrounding the enemy, and appearing to be a larger force than they actually were.
If the Mongolian army was too heavily outnumbered, they would turn aside, putting a day or two’s journey between themselves and the enemy, and then lay waste to whatever was around them, which depleted supplies that would normally have been foraged by the enemy. Mongolian armies might also retreat for 10-12 days, until the opposing army had disbanded, then attack them. Mongolians gained victory by destroying the enemy and progressively dominating the territories of those they conquered. The Mongols were able to do this in Russia by dividing the country and then weakening it.
The artillery stayed behind with the engineers (typically Persians), reserves and remounts. The Mongols learned about siege weapons from either the Chinese or the Persians, and improved upon them when they invaded Iran. Chinese siege engines used by the Mongols are described in my article
Among the Mongolian siege methods was to dam a nearby river and divert its flow to flood a city. The Amo River, used for this purpose, now has a new course from what it had prior to the 13th century.
The Mongolian Army – Invasion Timeline and Legacy
1206 – Temujin, after uniting the nomadic tribes of the steppes into the Mongolian Federation of Tribes, is proclaimed khagan, and given the name of Chinghis. He begins a series of foreign conquests the following year.
1207-1210 – Chinghis sends his eldest son Jochi to defeat the Oirat, Buriyat, Turkish Kirghiz and Tumet tribes. The next battle is against the kingdom of Si-hia in the Ordos desert. This is a stronghold of Buddhism and Chinese culture with an army of 150,000. Jochi lays siege until 1210, when the capital city of Chungsing surrenders. —In the meantime, Chinghis takes the kingdom of Karakhitai, of which most subjects are Turks. In 1209 Barchuk, the ruler of the Uighur Turks, joins with Chinghis.
1211-1217 –Jaghatai, Jochi, Ogodei and Chinghis lead three forces totaling 120,000 men across the Gobi Desert against the Chin army of 500,000, and defeat them in 1217. Turkistan is invaded on this campaign and absorbed by Chinghis in 1215.
1219 -1245 are detailed in my original article
1246-1251 –Ogodei’s widow Artedais serves as regent until the new khagan can be elected. Although Ogodei appointed his grandson Kubilai, Artedais succeeds in putting her own son Kuyuk on the throne. However, Kuyuk dies two years later and Mongke, nominated by Batu, becomes khagan in 1251.
In a controversial move, Batu later establishes himself at Sarai (65 miles north of Astrakhan on the lower Volga River) and holds his own khurlitai, where he is proclaimed (or proclaims himself) khagan. Batu breaks allegiance with Karakorum and rules independently as the Great Khan of the Golden Horde (from the Mongol altun ardu). Although Batu’s tribes are mostly Turkish, the official language remains Mongolian, and it remains a province of the Mongol Empire. This is the beginning of the splintering of Chinghis’s empire, and begins the demise of the Mongolians as a coherent ruling force by the 14th century.
Italian trade settlements at Kaffa, Sudak and Kertch are maintained by Genoese and Venetians. The Mongols take over direct administration in the Ukraine, but allow Russian princes to administer most of the rest of Russia. Tribute takes the form of annual taxes from merchants and farmers, and animals from Russian nomads and cattle breeders. The Mongols interest in land was not political (they did not care who owned it), but rather they viewed land as a source for troops and revenue, assessed through annual censuses which were carried out by the Chinese. Their only political interest was for the Russian nobility to acknowledge their khagan at Karakorum as the Supreme Ruler. Batu’s aim was to keep Russian princes disunited; rivalry was encouraged through the naming of one of the princes as Grand Duke, a title which was revoked and transferred by the ruling Khagan at will.
1255-1299 –Hulagu, a grandson to Chinghis, conquers Transoxiana, Iran and Iraq and establishes the Iklhan Horde in Iran. Batu dies at old Sarai in 1255, leaving a territory from the upper Ob River to the lower Syr Darya, and from the Caspian coast to the Black Sea. A decline in leadership begins. Berke succeeds him in 1257 and dies in 1266.
Mongke Temur becomes khagan in 1266, but Nogai Noyan is the actual hand of power, and the cause of much infighting among the Mongolian ruling class. Nogai urges the Russian princes to fight against Poland and Lithuania, while he advances on south Poland and Hungary. Mongke Temur dies in 1280 and is succeeded by Tuda Mongke, who later abdicates to Teleboge, who is later seized and given to Tokhtu whom Nogai later proclaims as Khagan.
Nogai takes dominion in the Crimea, and is later opposed by Tokhtu, who sides against him in a war between Venice and Genoa. Nogai dies in 1299. Kubilai, grandson of Chinghis, conquers China in 1279 and establishes the Yuan Dynasty. Ghazan, great grandson of Hulagu, has become a Muslim and the Ilkhans become the national dynasty of Iran. Ties to the Mongol Khagans to the East dissipate.
1312-1378 –Tokhtu dies and is succeeded by Ozbeg, who appoints Ivan Kalita of Moscow as Grand Duke. This office remains with the princes of Moscow until the end of Mongol rule in Russia. Ozbeg dies in 1341 and is succeeded by his son Janibeg who dies in 1357, and is in turn succeeded by Beribeg. The Golden Horde loses interest in lands south of the Caucasus. Beribeg is murdered in 1359. Timur becomes a major player and establishes Samarkand as hie capitol in 1335.
The Golden Horde is counter-attacked successfully in 1363 at the battle of Kulikouo by Dmitry Donskoy, Prince of Moscow. This battle is the first major defeat suffered by the Golden Horde.Civil war breaks out between rivals for the khanate and Russian princes attempting to overthrow Moscow. The Lithuanian Grand Dukes extend their power as far as Kiev. The Golden Horde’s territory is divided between the rulers of the Crimea, Astrakhan and Khwarazm. Timur Melik makes himself master of Khwarazm, and helps Tokhtamysh in his possession of Astrakhan and Sarai in 1378.
1382-1430 sees the beginning of the disentegration of the Golden Horde. The remainder of this timeline, running to 1689, is detailed in my original paper.
The Mongolian Legacy The
Mongols were the last and most destructive invaders to come from the
steppes. Even though Europe was saved from invasion by the deaths of
Ogodei and Mansu, the Mongolian campaign had the following far-reaching
and negative consequences:
However, not all consequences were dire:
The success of Chinghis lay in the strategies of his general,
Subetai, as well as his own skill and organization in battle. The Mongol
nation was eventually defeated by their own political infighting,
disintegration in their discipline, and their shift from the harshness
of nomadic culture, to the soft luxuries of city life. The introduction
of firearms to Eastern Europe also played a major role, as they changed
the nature of war throughout Europe, and later, the world at large.
I arrive about 2 hours before closing. I wait in a line that eats up twenty valuable minutes, and enter the Topkapi Palace through the Gate of Salutation, whose iconic towers were built during the reign of Suleyman the Magnificent.
This gate opens out onto the Second Courtyard which is also called the Council Square, where coronations, receptions and other affairs of state were held. The Tower of Justice (used as a council chamber for the Grand Viziers and military judges since the 19th century) and the Imperial Chancery (dating from the reign of Suleyman the Magnificent, early 16th century) are also located here.
I walk past the Treasury, which is now a Weapons Museum, in search of the Palace Kitchen, which houses Turkish glassware and Asian porcelain collections. Disappointed to find it closed, I head towards the Carriage Gate, the gateway to the Harem Apartments, the private residence of the sultan and his family.
After passing through the Carriage Gate, I walk into the Domed Cabinets, where documents referencing Mecca and Medina were kept. Next is the Fountain Hall, rebuilt in 1665 after a fire, and dizzying in its wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling tile work. Then through the Courtyard of the Black Eunuchs, who guarded the wives and concubines. After half an hour, I stop taking photos. Baha was not kidding. The palace is immense, room after room after hallway, linking to courtyards to even more rooms…
I pass through the Main Gate, which leads to the sultan’s private apartments, the Gallery of the Concubines, and the Courtyard of the Sultana Mother. Each apartment is two stories, though public access appears to only be available to those rooms at the ground level.
I came back from the Topkapi with enough information about the Harem to write a comparative study of the courtesans of Venice and Istanbul…
The Courtyard of the Favorites housed the wives, in close proximity to the Sultana Mother. Each Favorite had a private room on this second floor, with a fireplace and enameled closets. Those rooms overlooking the Golden Horn also had separate toilets and hamamis. The lower level dormitories housed the concubine servants.
The Sultana Mother’s apartments were also heavily tiled, and included a fireplace and a fountain in every room. In addition to living quarters, the Sultana’s living area also included a prayer room, bathhouse and toilet, making it an independently functioning structure from the rest of the harem apartments.
I cannot remember which of the apartments had this beautiful dome, painted with vines. I was so inspired by the dome that I replicated the design as a hat a few weeks later…
The Privy Room of Sultan Murad III was designed and built by Mimar Sinan in 1579 and was the sultan’s official and private apartment. It is covered with Iznik tile and the room is encircled with a white-on-blue calligraphed band reciting the Verse of the Throne from the Kor’an. It is quite spectacular even in this dim light.
I duck into what would be the first of several gift shops here, and find a book of Suleyman’s poetry. The palace will close soon so I run through rooms of jewelry; coppers, brasses and silver works; weapons and helms, catching the briefest glimpse of the Topkapi Dagger with three enormous emeralds set into its handle. The textile collection is much smaller than I expected, but most of the pieces are laid out flat which gives the perfect view of their construction.
A 17th century Italian velvet that I watched being produced on a video at the Lanterna in Genoa, is here, in the form of a Sultan’s coat. Italian silks and velvets were highly prized by the Ottoman sultans and princes. There are several inner caftans here as well – collarless, and tight fitting, with gussets running from waist to hem. Caftans were worn over a loose robe called an entari, which in turn were worn over shalwar trousers, with a wide waist which was gathered in with a sash which passed through drawstrings on the waistband. In addition to Italian velvets and silks, a metallic brocade called serâser (a cloth of silver/gold alloys produced in Istanbul during the 16th century) and kemha, (a compound weave blending polychrome silks with metallic threads) were also worn.
Towards the 18th century, the heavy silks and velvets gave way to satins, taffeta, gezi (a thick silk), sandal (a cotton/silk blend) and selimiye, a silk produced in Istanbul. I loved the talismanic shirts, which reminded me of the Taoist caftans from some of the Mongolian exhibits I had seen. Verses from the Kor’an and other prayers were meant to protect the wearer from illnesses and enemies, and are thought to have been prepared through a combined effort of the court astrologers and theologians.
I spend the remaining daylight wandering around the grounds, weaving my way through pavilions and admiring the carved marble plaques that line the sidewalks along the Royal Kitchen. Many are in various states of repair and restoration.
I exit the Topkapi grounds through the Imperial Gate, capped with beautiful gold Arabic script against a blue background. The roundel on the archway is the signature of Sultan Abdulaziz (1861-76). Above it, “Help from God and a speedy victory” which was also the battle cry of the Jannisaries. On the other side, the following script:
If I ever came back to Istanbul, I would want to spend at least two days here.
You can see more photos (in larger format) at Daveno Travels.
Back at the hotel, I am greeted by an animated young waiter who is working the sidewalk in front of the hotel. The Hotel Han is right next door to the Barbecue House, which seems to be a pretty popular eatery. I walk up to the large pictorial menu and ask the waiter for a suggestion. After some back-and-forth banter, he seats me at a table on the sidewalk. A very short time later, a large sampler plate arrives, covered with chicken, steak, lamb, and two other meats I could not identify; grilled peppers and tomatoes, a salad of shredded carrots, lettuce and spiced pickled cabbage; rice, fries, pizza and a boat shaped bread filled with cheese. A half a piece of focaccia serves as a trencher below the meats. An Efes beer to wash it down with, and a dinner show, free of charge as I watch with amusement the young waiter convince passers by to pull off the sidewalk and take a seat.
Thankful for the course corrections of the day, with a happy mind and full belly, I look forward to a full night’s sleep and new adventures tomorrow…
By Heather Daveno, early 1980’s. This DIY article is copyright free as long as you credit its author.
The peaked roof of the 13th century maikhan was supported by a ridgepole, supported in turn by two upright poles. Guy ropes served to stabilize these uprights at each end of the maikhan. The guy ropes which were made of yak hair, were adorned with prayer flags, which served to both mark the guy ropes (notorious trip hazards), and to send prayers to heaven for the Buddhist inhabitants. Smaller maikhans belonging to Buddhist ascetics included an iron trident, which probably fastened to the top of one of the two uprights.
If you would like to build one like I did, feel free to download this article.
As I was designing hats for an upcoming show in 2016, I was somewhat dismayed to find that I could no longer craft a couple of my favorites. It is with a mix of nostalgia and sadness that I announce the end of the line for the hat that started it all…
“The Classic,” known by some as the “Classic Lao Hat” launched my company several years ago. It was inspired by a medieval Viking model, although this style was also prevalent throughout Europe, Northern Europe, Russia, and Mongolia during the medieval period.
Historically a 5-panel hat with exposed seams, I designed my version with 6 panels to accommodate embroidery on every other panel. That design modification also ended up created a better fitting hat.
Originally made from 70/40% wool felt, I switched over to using wools gleaned from thrift store coats, which felted up when washed and which became fray-proof. This produced a higher quality and longer lasting hat. But supplies for this quality of wool have diminished in the recycled textiles market, and I can no longer guarantee the selection of colors that make this hat marketable.
I have a few of these hats in my inventory, most of which is now on tour at various gallery shows across the country. I also hope to continue with my leather versions, albeit in a very limited color palette.
Meeting a similar fate is my Sitka, named after the Russian military hat I brought home after visiting Sitka, Alaska. My version was a tall six-panel hat with exposed seams, brocade cuff and embroidered earflap that tied up in front.
Looking on the bright side, if you own one of my Classics or Sitkas, hang on to it. As of October 1, 2016 it took one more step towards becoming a collectible : )
This index is a list of names from The History of the Nation of the Archers by Grigor of Akanc, written in 1271 in Cilicia at Akanc’ and preserved at the Armenian Convent of St. James at Jerusalem. The Armenian text was, translated by Robert D. Blake and Richard N. Frye. I located this work in the Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies, Vol. 2, No. 3-4, published by the Harvard-Yenching Institute in December 1949.
I compiled this in 1988 as a resource for historians, heralds, historical reenactors and modern gamers. You can download the complete list here.
Back in 2013, I was introduced to Michael Broder through a colleague at TAFAList, Rachel Biel. Michael had purchased a kufe, but the sizing was off and it was too small for him to wear. I was enlisted to remedy that.
A year later, Rachel referred another customer to me. Another kufe, this one with straight sides, embroidered with Jerusalem crosses. An unfortunate victim of the household dog who claimed it as a chew-toy.
The kufe arrived a few days later, tattered and torn, with a section of the embroidery beyond repair. I sent a cost estimate to the customer, Brian, who approved my plan to reconstruct rather than restore his hat. And so, my next salvage project began.
Rather than walk you through that process, I’m sharing Brian’s story, which he shared with me in printed booklet format. I don’t often receive that sort of feedback from customers, which makes Brian’s story even more special.
“Once upon a time, there was a beautiful woven hat. It sat on a shelf of a religious bookstore in the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco, growing dusty as it waited for just the right person…”
“Meanwhile, Brian and his wife Joan were riding the Amtrak cross-country on vacation. They disembarked and enjoyed a few days of sightseeing in Seattle and then Vancouver. Their next stop was San Francisco.”
“The city was well-known for its vampires, who prowl about after sunset. Obviously, they needed protection. Brian carried a crucifix and holy water in his backpack, and they purchased other repellants – salt, garlic, rosewater – along the way. But they did not feel confident that these would suffice in an emergency, and continued to seek “just the right armor.”
“Circumstances led them to the Haight-Ashbury district in search of dinner. As luck would have it, Brian noticed a small religious book shop and was immediately intrigued by it. As he perused the items for sale, The Hat sent out its vibes, quietly pulling him toward the shelf on which it sat. The minute he laid eyes on it, he knew it was ‘the one’. Not only did it fit him perfectly, it was beautifully embroidered in a repeating pattern of Jerusalem Crosses…exactly the vampire-repelling armor he had been seeking. He paid for it, took his leave of the shop and its keeper, and hastened with Joan to dinner.”
“Fueled by an exquisite meal, Brian and Joan set off hand-in-hand, knowing the extraordinary hat that Brian now wore would safeguard them on their journey. No vampires were encountered on the way home that night. Or the next day. Or at all, for the remainder of their trip. Vampires apparently sensed the power of the hat and kept their distance.”
“It became Brian’s favorite and he wore it everywhere. It took on his scent and the shape of his head, as if it were an extension of his very self. But soon the hat, with its familiar scent and broken-in softness, became an irresistible temptation for Brian’s dog, Tailor.”
“Of all the things Tailor loved to chew, he loved hats the most…”
“Inevitably, one day, the hat was left within Tailor’s reach. Seeing his pointy teeth and mistaking him for a vampire, the hat became overconfident in its powers, and the unthinkable happened…”
“Tailor was severely scolded and hung his head in the sincerest of apologies…but the hat was beyond repair and its owner was heartbroken. Unable to part with his talisman, he gathered up the tattered remains and stored them away…”
“Months later, Brian received an invitation to attend services at a local mosque. He thought about his old hat and how perfect it would have been for the occasion. Wondering if he could ever find another like it, he searched the Internet for the store he had bought it from, but came up empty, almost as though the little shop had never existed.”
“Typing in keywords “kuffe” and “Jerusalem Cross” produced only one match, a Seattle company called August Phoenix Hats, which offered handcrafted artisan hats made from reclaimed textiles and found objects. He contacted the owner and she encouraged him to send her what was left of the hat. If the repair was not possible, she could perhaps copy the pattern to create a new one.”
“Encouraged, Brian mailed the hat off to Seattle and anxiously awaited her reply [which was, eventually, yes…]”
“…Slowly, little by little, Heather the Hat Whisperer worked her magic. She matched and patched, wove and stitched, lined and resized, expertly blending the old with the new and adding her own chapter to the hat’s tale…”
“When the package arrived from Seattle, Brian and Joan set it aside, saving the best for last. After sorting through letters and bills and Christmas cards, they turned their attention to the box and carefully opened it.”
“The sight of his hat, intact once more, brought tears to Brian’s eyes. He turned it around and around in his hands, marveling at the magnificent job Heather had done to bring the hat back to life.”
“Brian placed the hat on his head and it fit perfectly, the reunion of two old friends. Comfort and Joy in the Christmas season! He danced around the kitchen, not wanting to take it off. In the meantime, Tailor stood nearby, curiously eyeing the hat, catching the faint scent of his master still lingering in the fabric. He wondered how such a miracle could have occurred and hoped it meant the end of his probation.”
“And the hat, with its new lease on life, was carefully placed on the closet shelf, where it awaits its next adventure…”
My thanks to Brian and Joan for writing, and sharing this wonderful story with me. — Heather, Hat Whisperer : )
May 8 – Mother’s Day in Firenze
I wake up at 6:30 AM, but roll back and try to go back to sleep. Forty-five minutes later, a neighbor starts playing Spanish guitar in the lobby just outside my door. There are worse ways to wake up on a Sunday morning…
Today is ‘everything breaks’ day. I have a cold but my blisters are less severe this morning. Paint chips fall from the bathroom ceiling and shatter on the floor. A light fixture near the bed has pulled away from the wall and the other one no longer works. I pop coins into the vending machine for a bottle of water and something I was expecting to be yogurt, but was actually peach juice in a yogurt shaped container. Sadly, the coffee vending machine is out of order today.
I climb back into bed with my fluids and a protein bar from my stash, and catch up on my journal as Italia news and other programming flash across the TV: a home shopping network selling Iranian carpets, I wish they would show more of the loom sitting in the corner. Spongebob Squarepants dubbed in Italian. Italy’s version(s) of America’s Got Talent. It’s just as bad here as it is at home.Five hours later, my journal is caught up, and my feet are much better after being elevated for the last several hours. It’s time to find some food, and some coffee, and perhaps some flipflops. And maybe a garden…
Sunday is a good down day here as most of the San Frediano district is closed. I had to cross the bridge to find food, and found a pizzeria where I ordered a veggie which included slices of zucchini, carrot, potato, olives and portabella mushroom, imbedded in a piece of focacia and drizzled with olive oil. There’s a potato pizza here but I’m not brave enough to try it.
I am feeling well enough to take a walk along the Arno, and up to the Ponte Vecchio to look at gold I cannot afford. On my way I find Signum, a great little shop with handmade journals, sealing wax, and Florentine papers. I buy myself a pocket calligraphy pen and a multi-nub pen, used to draw scales when you are writing music. It’s quite ingenious.
In spite of it being Mother’s Day, the city isn’t horribly crowded and I get some decent shots of the the storefront shutters. One of the locks was stainless steel but of Chinese design.
I wander through the street with no particular destination in mind, and up at the Loggia where the market is. Everyone sells variants of the same leather bags, scarves, t-shirts and leather folio covers. It’s worth a walk through just to rub the snout of the Boar Fountain (to assure your return here, according to local legend) and to take in the smell of new leather goods.
A building on the corner is full of bikes. You Must Be Kidding! I don’t know if they are replicas of antiques or if this is an art installation, but the book I bought seems to indicate that they are based on historical models: a barber’s bike with its chest of shaving implements; a Cantastorie with a hurdy gurdy strapped to the front; a portrait painter with paintbox on his handlebars and portrait samples over the back fenders; and my favorite, shown here, a Pompiere – a firefighting bicycle.
My next discovery is the Palazzo Vecchio. The ground floor is a public area and covered with some of the most amazing archways in the city.
The Uffizi is hosting an exhibit of the works of DaVinci, and the lines are around the block. I look up to notice a “living statue” dressed as a cherub on the steps, posing for pictures. He’s only the first… the next one is dressed as an Egyptian sarcophagi, the one after that a statue from the Duomo.
I hand my camera to a standerby and pose with the statue for a photo. The crowd starts to gather and giggle, and while the standerby is trying to figure out my camera, I feel a rustle of cloth and turn to find that the living statue has slowly moved towards me to provide a better photograph. It was really fun to get my camera back, not with one shot, but a sequence of shots… the statue was very friendly and unwilling to let go of my hand but I finally made my escape.
The last living statue was DaVinci himself, who, after I deposited a coin in his can, motioned for me to approach. He pulled out of his book three squares of paper, “Il codice da Vinci dell Economia,” (For a new constitutional order in the contemporary democratic revolutions). You can learn more about this manifesto at which you can read more about at creditosociale.
I walk back along the row of statuary for a last look, and laugh as I see the woman who followed after me to pose with the Duomo statue is also having trouble retrieving her hand from his affectionate grip.
I find the Galileo Museum – the science museum that I will compare to the one I’m seeing in Istanbul. Photography is not allowed, but at least they have a catalog to take home. Searching high and low through the gift shop for a replica astrolabe, I come up empty handed. It is the singular souvenir I had hoped to bring home from this trip.
I’m now looking for the Bardini Mansion that I saw advertised at the Pitti Palace. I stop at a grocer and buy a picnic lunch, which I enjoy in the solitude of the steps of an old fortress wall, which turns out to be the Belvedere Fortress which surrounds the Bardini mansion and its gardens. The artworks I came to see are interesting, and although I enjoy them, they’re not interesting enough for me to photograph. The next galleries are a completely different story…
It’s a Roberto Capucci exhibit. I know nothing of this designer, but his work is super impressive in both design and detail. I always appreciate visiting mannequins that I can walk completely around. The “Red Bride” below is one of my favorites from this beautiful and unexpected exhibit.
Down one of the hallways is a glass door with a view of the city. One of the museum staff kindly unlocks the door and lets me out onto the balcony. Although I was told that the best panorama of Florence was from the Michalangelo —- the best view is actually from the third floor balcony of the Villa Bardini.
This part of the city has a number of cutaways in the stucco to expose more ancient parts of the building, an architectural feature that’s a fascinating way to preserve the history of a building.
My final day in Florence is capped by a beautiful sunset on the Arno. By this time tomorrow, I’ll be watching the sunset in Istanbul.
For the rest of the photos from this final day in Florence, please visit Daveno Travels.
It’s a pleasant morning as I retrace last night’s route to the train station. I walk past the Benedictine abbey ruins that I saw on the tour bus last night. Even in ruins it is a very peaceful place, and my heart is touched by a single rose bush, its blooms framed by the marble columns…
It’s amazing how easily I’m distracted and how quickly I can lose my way, and yet still manage to get to the train station on time.
The train travels through Margherite, Chiavari and Sestri. I see orange trees growing in back yards, and a cemetery in Sestri right next to the train track. Through Levanto, then Monterosso, and now, I have a first class cabin all to myself.
I take the stairs down to the Viume and proceed through the piazzas.
La Spezia must be the home of Benneton. Colors of Benneton. Undercolors of Benneton. Oh, look, another Colors of Benneton. The waterfront in Genova is filled with Jamaican street vendors. Here the same products are sold by gypsies. I pass a pair of gypsy women begging for coin, one is particularly aggressive and shouts curses at me as I pass.
I walk along the docks until the ferry arrives and find a seat topside. I keep reaching new pain thresholds, and now have a sore throat. Today my feet hurt so much I am tempted to stay on the ferry. I’m really glad I didn’t try to do the Cinque Terre tour which is best done on foot.
Castello Andrea Doria
The monolithic skyline of Portovenere comes into view and in spite of my feet screaming at me, I’m eager to explore the fortifications. I am at once irritated with the people in front of me who stop as soon as they debark, preventing the rest of us from getting off the boat. Stupid Tourists! Finally I get past this throng and walk swiftly along the wharf, noticing how green and clear the water is. I can see the bottom of the gulf and schools of small black fish are streaming around the sterns of the boats moored here.
The terrain here is the steepest I have encountered so far. I get a few yards into the market area before turning around and heading back to find the tourist center which has now cleared of Stupid Tourists. I really regret not packing a second pair of shoes, and not renting a locker for my bags at the trains station.
By some miracle I make it to the top of the fortress. From this vantage point I can see the other older castle and church in the distance, but decide against trying to walk any more distance today. The views are spectacular and I think I get some of the best shots so far this trip.
I edge my way back down the hill. Goodness, the stairs. The STAIRS. Steep, deep, irregular, no handrails in places, and my shoes are wrong and my bags are siding with gravity to nearly pull me over a couple of times. It takes every ounce of energy I have to get back down without falling.
Here are more of my photos of Castello Andrea Doria.
The beach I had hoped to find here is a 20’x20′ patch of sand, occupied by kids kicking a volleyball. Dipping my feet into the sea is probably ill advised with my blisters, so I content myself with sitting in the sun and watching the world as I wait for the ferry. I have an hour and could probably attend to those postcards. Or I can continue to just sit here in the sun. Guess which one wins…
I had planned to hail a cab back to the train station in La Spezia, but there weren’t any cabs at the stop. Had I taken a cab, I would have missed the key patterned mosaic in the archway above the sidewalk, a house with aqua shutters instead of green ones, and a much needed gelato, where the cafe tables were dressed with linens and outfitted with wooden ashtrays, which I thought was an interesting contradiction between form and function.
At the train station, I scan the departures board for my original train to Firenze but don’t see it. I go to the information desk where I buy a new ticket for the next train home, and am told that I have to connect in Pisa, in even less time than my original ticket! Great… I retain both tickets, deciding I can use the original if I miss the connection on the new ticket.
It’s spring break, and the train is filled with loud chatty teenage girls on holiday. My fingers go into my ears when the noise level becomes intolerable. I commiserate non-verbally with the distinguished looking businessman sitting across from me, when he does the ‘finger to head, just shoot me now’ gesture which is entertaining in its sheer universal reach. The decibel level finally declines enough to allow me to nod off, but I wake up at every stop, of which there are far too many on this route. Get me home already, please.
We arrive in Pisa. The closest exit is barred shut and the college girls are taking sweet-all time to exit in front of me. “Hurry!” escapes my lips, in a none-too-polite outdoor voice. Another collection of Stupid Tourists blocks the only set of stairs from the subway down to the station. I push my way through, not caring whom I offend. I rush down the stairs and then back up the other stairs to the lobby to check the schedule. My train is the first one listed and is now boarding. I make a mad dash back down the stairs, and then back up again at Platform 8. And I make the train with minutes to spare.
The regional trains are new to the fleet, this one is a double-decker and is fairly luxurious as far as trains go. I grab a window seat for the hour-long trip through Pontedera-casciana, Empoli, Lastra a Signa. This route is different from the others I’ve taken so far, taking me through more modern areas, industrial districts and green belts. In spite of the new architecture, the style remains the same – multi-story stucco buildings with green shuttered windows and ether tile or what looks like red tile composite roofs, the composites having less depth and visual richness than Tuscan tile. The new buildings are void of extraneous detail with the notable exception of the doors, which are still very tall, ornate, some are arched.
I’m getting my wish to see the countryside by train.
Here’s another gypsy, this one leaving printed requests for money which she collects on her return run through (bowing mutely to those who donate to her cause). I’m amazed at seeing beggars on the trains, clean and not badly dressed, and wonder how many people ride the rails by either begging for fare or riding until they getting tossed off, only to hop onto the next train heading towards their destination.
I am very tired, but I feel much better now that I am on my way home. I arrive at SMN at the time my original ticket had me departing La Spezia. That’s a win.
Dinner, and a walk over the Carrerra Bridge which now sports several white beanbag chairs among a grove of saplings set in huge white tote bags. Green installation art for the locals to laze in. The next bridge over, lights up. I walk by the now familiar gelato shop on the corner, and the kitchen shop which today has a full size Majolica BBQ in the window. Hysterical!
Back in my room, I catch up on journaling and photo uploads before tucking myself into bed for the night…
I find a guidebook across the street in the Piazza de Ducale Genova and study it over a cup of caffe ginseng at the Arte dell Caffee. But there’s no useful information, not even a map. I ask the baristo, who points me in the general direction of the Lanterna.
On my way out, I snap a photo of the infamous green door of my B&B, and note the numbering sequence on the street. Starting at 9, then 7, 17, 15, 5 (my door), then a door with no number, and another with no number, and another 7. I was looking for 5/10 and had no hope of finding it short of reading the labels on the doorbells. Which is the only way I have managed to find any of my hotels thus far. Fellow travelers take heed.
It’s a pleasant walk to the waterfront, past a boat in drydock that is being pressure washed, past the aquarium, and the Neptune, a replica of a 17th century galleon that was used in Roman Polanski’s ‘Pirate’ film. An open air tour bus is idling in front of the maritime office. The driver speaks enough English to direct me up the street towards the Lanterna. I said I would be back for a tour, he said, “wait until after 1 PM because there is a labor strike today.” ”Fun for you” I said, and he laughed.
Less than 10 minutes down the street, I meet the rally head on. The Genoans refer to these as a “Public Manifestation.” The Transportation Union strike has shut the ferries down, and a police escort is clearing the street for about 200 marchers who follow to the beat of music blasting from huge stereo speakers stacked into the back of a pick-up truck. An old man hands me a Communist newspaper and indicates that I need to respond in cash, but I hand the paper back to him. Someone else hands me a flyer, which I replicate here:
PER COMBATTERE LA DISUGUAGLIANZA SODCIALE, LA PRECARIETA, LA CRISI ECONOMICA PRODUCTTIVA Per difendere il diritto al lavoro e I diritti nel lavoro, per donne e uomini, cittadini italiana e migranti PER UN NUOVO MODELLO DI SVILUPPO CHE VALORIZI LA GIUSTIZIA SOCIALE, L’AMBIENTE I SAPERI E LA RICERCA PER UN FISCO CHE CONTRIBUISCA ALLA RIDISTRIBUZIONE DELLA RICCHEZZA: MENO TASSE A LAVORATORI E PENSIONATI, TASSARE LE RENDITE FINANZIARIE E GRANDI PATRIMONI Per uno stato sociale incluvio e fonte di ricchezza sociale PERDARE UNN FUTURO AI GIOVANI SENZA DIMENTICARE ANZIANI E MIGRANTI Per il diritto delle lavoratrici e dei lavoratori a votare piattaforme e accordi PERDIFENDERE LA DEMOCRAZIA E FONDAMENTALE VOTARE SIAI REFERNDUM DEL 12 GIUGNO CONTRO IL NUCLEARE PER L’ACQUA BENE COMUNE
Past the rally and to my left, I spy my landmark.
The boardwalk leading up top the Lanterna is studded with informational signs but I only read every other one, believing I’d find a book with this information in the gift shop (which, as usual, will turn out to not be the case…)
The first sign describes the Lanterna Promenade (Passeggiata Panoramica) that marks the ancient road connecting Genoa to its Western neighbors, and following the walls that surround the city. The boardwalk leading up to the lighthouse is being coated with marine tar. A police car stops behind me, and a dark haired cop asked if I am here to see the Lanterna. After a minute or two he seems to realize that I’m a tourist, and after several more attempts, communicates to me in pen and ink that the lighthouse is the “Cymbol of Genova.” Our language barrier prevents further conversation which is really unfortunate. I hike up to the base of the lighthouse and go to the ticket office window.
But the Lanterna is closed! It is only open on weekends. No amount of pleading gains me access to the tower, but I am welcome to wander through the public park surrounding the base of the tower, and visit the museum. Reconciling myself to that fact, I take a seat on a bench at the base of the beacon, and eat a mid-day snack. I look over to my left to see that the officers that stopped me earlier (no doubt wondering what I was doing there on a day the site was closed) were also finishing their break. As they get up to leave, I ask to take their picture.
The blond cop takes my camera, and without speaking, motions for me to stand with his partner so he can take our photo. The partner asks me where I’m from, and when I say “Seattle” he responds with “Ah, Rainy City.” “Yes,” I reply.
He then starts to lead me somewhere to show me something, and as I turn to retrieve my purse from the bench, his partner walks over to guard over it. The dark haired officer shows me the garden that lay below the foot of the Lanterna, and that I would have completely missed had he not pointed it to me. What a great interchange that was, and a great trade off for not being able to get inside the lighthouse itself. The 365 steps to the top would have probably done me in anyway.
Genoa is another city where the building that houses the museum, is in itself a museum. The Lanterna Museum is in the fortified base of the tower, which did not defend the lighthouse, but rather, the Porta Nuovo, the gate that marked the road leading from East to West. The first several rooms are nothing but benches and video screens, each screen depicting a different aspect of Ligurian arts and culture. The range of topics is broad, from modern port traffic, to medieval sculpture and paint, velvet weaving, processing fruit for confectionery, choir boys preparing for a church processional. This cool and restful spot would be a really great place to spend a hot afternoon.
Deeper inside this building I arrive in rooms filled with the several pieces of the lighthouse and walls covered with schematic drawings.
I find my way down into the park. On the other side of the Lanterna base there are more signs, including one that describes the houses in the distance that were the summer manors for Genoans during the 16th century. Having seen all there is to see, I take one last look at the ‘Cymbol of Genova’ before backtracking back to the tour bus. My feet, which are now both bruised and blistered, are fighting with the heavy cobblestone walkways and are ever so thankful to reach the smoother boardwalk.
A short distance from the Lanterna is a shopping mall, where I hope to find a bookstore and a history of the Lanterna. But the bookstore is a fail, as is a shoe store where I had hoped to find another pair of shoes. At the end of the mall is a COOP, one of the chain grocery stores in Italy. I see local apples, pears from Argentina, imported tomatoes, Valencia oranges, and red asparagus. Pomegranate juice is prevalent. It’s weird seeing hard liquor on the shelf on the next aisle over from socks and underwear. Sale flyers were notably absent. I buy lunch — a satisfying spinach ricotta torte and some lemon-sized pears, which are crunchy but have virtually no flavor. Grocery stores have already become my favorite go-to places for a quick and cheap lunch.
It’s now about 1 PM. Traffic is at a stand still as a police escort returns to the rally point, marching in front of a motley and angry group of youth from the labor demonstration. I’m making faster progress on foot than the cars are. I arrive at the aquarium just as one of the tour buses is pulling in.
The narration over the headphones talks about the arcaded walkways, covered with arabesque archways (similar to Venice), and how Genova made efficient use of the limited land they had between the sea and the mountain. We pass an opera house that was rebuilt after being destroyed during the bombings of WWII, and a row of delicate archways that is all that remains of a medieval Benedictine abbey.
An ornate building that during the Renaissance functioned as Genova’s stock exchange. An Arc de Triumph built by a prominent Communist architect, and beyond it, a garden dedicated to Christopher Columbus, with his three ships in ‘bloom” on a terraced plot, though I later discover that the visual impact is lost when you actually walk in that park.
The Oriental Market, laid out in concentric circles in an old convent. The Palace of Giants, marked on its corners by pairs of marble men supporting the buildings greco-roman columns on their shoulders. The Abbey of St. Steven, built from pink stone from Liguria, considered to be one of the most valuable building materials in Genova.
I notice several buildings with Juliet-style balconies, some in wrought iron but most in stone. A few buildings are decorated in elaborate trompe l’oeil. A top floor apartment is flying a pirate flag from its corner terrace. The narration on the tour bus also mentions the trademark striped marble buildings as a main feature in Ligurian architecture. The train station decorated in Neo-Classic style but which dates to 1905.
Additional photos of Genova can be viewed at Daveno Travels.
The Genoa Aquarium
I was struck by the intense landscaping of the tanks. Unlike the Seattle aquarium whose tanks are bare, these hold your attention even if there aren’t any fish. Some of the coral is from the coastline along the Cinque Terre.
The penguin tank was a scream! The tank replicates the environment of the Falkland Islands and is inhabited by both Gentoo penguins from the Antarctic and Magellanics from the coast of Chile and Argentina. They buzzed the glass constantly and were pretty interactive with us.
I also watched a diver cleaning the tropical lagoon, where Cuba, a playful sea turtle, kept coming up to ‘kiss’ the diver’s face mask and rub along the entire length of his body. Cuba is a rescued turtle who was discovered in 2000 in a box addressed to the aquarium, with a note that gave a birth date of August 1996, and that she had come from Cuba. Another rescued sea turtle is also here. Ari was smuggled into Italy by a tourist from the Maldives and later abandoned, and adopted by the Aquarium.
The Galata Museum of the Sea
I exit the aquarium and traverse the boardwalk, past the farmer’s market and Jamaican vendors selling purses and sunglasses, past the Neptune galleon and on to the Museum of the Sea, which my dad would have really loved. It’s a multistory building housing 10,000 meters of exhibit space separated into 17 galleries, not including the submarine outside.
The ground floor, housed in what looks like another ancient building with low spreading curved ceilings which shape the room like a Quonset hut, is themed The Age of Oar. There are banks of armor, a reliquary containing some of the ashes of Christopher Columbus, and a full scale replica of a 17th century galleon. The Age of Sail exhibit covered 2 floors and includes a nice collection of globes and navigational instruments, although the room is very dimly lit and it was difficult to get decent photos.
The third floor was unexpectedly educational. The Age of Steam walks you through replica rooms of a ship, as athird-class passenger would have experienced them, complete with engine noise and a view of the sea out of the tiny porthole. Towards the end of this floor you are given a ‘passaporto’ and immigration papers, and are taken through the immigration process at Ellis Island. As an American, it was pretty eye opening to see this process from the side of an Italian immigrant. The passport is bar coded and activates a video inspection officer which is apparently pretty amusing judging by the reactions of the Italians in front of me. Yet another reason to master Italian before visiting Italy.
After signing a release and checking my bags into a locker, I put on the hair net and hardhat I am handed, and board a reproduction of the N. Sauro, Italy’s largest submarine. Had I been aware of the pre-show, I would have learned how to use the periscope and hydrophone. I should have opted for the free headset which apparently also had additional instruction.
I did not have time to see more than half of this Maritime complex. But I’m happy to be adding “has been on a submarine” to my list of life experiences.
I opt out of dinner and return to my ‘convent’ room. I take off my shoes to find that one of my blisters has a blister. I didn’t think that was physically possible… I’m really regretting not having packed another pair of shoes for this part of my trip. I end the night with a bath, and packing for an early day tomorrow to La Spezia.
May 5, 2011
I set out on the path I took yesterday which led me straight to the train station. Today however, is a different day and inexplicably, I find myself on the Ponte Veccio, the next bridge over…
I’m not sure where I took the wrong turn, but I take the opportunity to take some photos of the goldsmiths’ shops while their windows are still encased in their medieval-esque wooden doors and shutters, including what appears to be a Chinese lock on one of the Florentine doors. The vendors are setting up in the logias and a few yards beyond them, I slow my pace to take in the fragrant blooms offered by a flower vendor. I stop for a lovely but brief breakfast at the Riviori, in the shadow of the Bargello Museum, and watch with amusement as a sparrow hops around the marble floor below my pink linen draped table. Cappuccino and cresta finished, I decide to head over to the Duomo to get my bearings back. My muscles are already lamenting the lack of protein at breakfast.
Apparently I can’t get there from here. Every turn takes me further off course and I have no sense of where I am, which baffles me completely. The first time I was here I couldn’t get lost if I tried, this trip I am nothing but lost. I finally make sense of my map and despite all odds, manage to arrive at the train station an hour early.
I scan the interior of the train station for a gelato stand but end up with a soft serve and a McMuffin. Fast food is bad no matter what country you are in. The Italians do not seem to eat protein early in the day and so far the only breakfast protein I’ve found has been wrapped in thick slices of focaccia. I go to the platform where my train is supposed to arrive, but after awhile, discover that the gate has changed. I make a mad dash for a train that is boarding, thankful that I didn’t get here early just to miss it for lack of double checking the schedule…
Travel from Firenze to Pisa is uneventful. I choose a seat near the schematic showing the stations so I wouldn’t stress out from not knowing the order of the stops. But that’s not a problem since Pisa is the end of the line. An older American gentleman sits down across from me and we make idle chit-chat as I try to write postcards, and he focuses on taking video with his camera phone.
The Pisa train station reminds me of the international concourse at SeaTac. The first thing I encounter is a group of Haitian men in an argument that is quickly clearing the concourse. I feel my bags being jostled every time I move, and swing them in front of me so they don’t get rifled through. Panic sets in as I realize that 12 minutes is not enough time to make my connection when I return. I stop by the customer service desk to resolve tickets that do not match my printed itinerary, and find that my return is a direct train from La Spezia to Firenze, with no connection in Pisa. Cool! I am happy in the knowledge that I will not have to pass through to this haven for the seedier side of humanity on my return trip.
I must say that the European train system puts US transit to shame, and makes Seattle’s bus and train station feel like someone’s back yard homework project. We have a lot to learn.
I find my seat in First Class, one of six comfy stuffed chairs in a glassed-in cabin, shared with an older gentleman and a young couple with their toddler. A toddler who quickly becomes fascinated with my netbook and mouse and starts screaming when his parents pull him away. I wrap up my document about 10 minutes later when it becomes obvious that working on my netbook is going to remain a problem, and resort to pen and paper for the duration of the trip.
Pisa’s landscape is quite different from Firenze, and I don’t recognize most of the trees and plants. Many homes have backyard gardens large enough to sustain their families. Even the modern buildings are built in the traditional Italian style, with stucco walls and red tile roofs. The mountains are short but rugged, and there appears to be old stone buildings or fortress walls on the top of some of them. Some of them are blanketed in white which may have been wildflowers. Freight cars are round-topped and look like large gypsy wagons. Red poppies grow wild. We pass several stone quarries, and large blocks of white marble line the side of the railroad tracks.
We reach La Spezia, the halfway point between Pisa and Genova. I catch glimpses of the sea between long expanses of tunnel. Further up the coast, the houses and mansions take on the water colored stucco so prevalent in Venice. There are date palms, and the beaches have turned from brown sand to rugged rock and breakwaters. It is incredibly beautiful and I am now really glad I chose this route.
We speed through one final tunnel and at last arrive in Genova, which more resembles Florence than I expected it to. The train station is beautiful, with its rococo ceiling and stained glass windows. After a few mis-starts and finally finding an English speaking travel agent to point me in the right direction, I set out to find tonight’s lodging.
I walk through a downtown shopping core that looks like Florence, with wide sidewalks covered with logias reminiscent of those that surround San Marco Piazza in Venice, except that these have neon signs suspended from the vaulting. I remind myself to stop and look up from time to time, reminding myself that this is as much about the journey as it is the destination.
I find the street almost by accident after Google directions fail. But I cannot find the building. I should have looked for a name and a doorbell rather than trying to rely on the building numbers (which are a complete scramble) and I end up walking past the unmarked and unobtrusive green door countless times. I try to call Maria, my concierge, but my phone card fails. It’s now 5:30 and I’m two hours late. I’ve asked at least 10 people where this address is, only to be waved off in the general direction of the street. Finally, on my last pass, I find a note taped to the door with Maria’s cell phone number. I make another call using pocket change instead of the calling card, and get right through. We agree to meet at 7 PM.
My feet are rebelling and I can barely walk. Dinner is a piece of cheese focaccia from the bakery to the left of the Green Door, and a delightful caffe violetta from Bar Pacini to the right, who advertises themselves as ‘L’Arte dell Expresso’. It tastes like a liquid candied violets. I could be in trouble if I stayed here longer than a day. The row of shops in this block includes three pastry shops, two espresso shops, and a Chinese restaurant.
While I am waiting for Marie, a young East Indian man takes a seat near me and offers me a cigarette. Uh-oh, here we go. But he is very nice and we have a lengthy albeit very broken-language chat. He’s lived in Italy for ten years cleaning houses, has a wife and two children, says he speaks Italian well, but English not so well. He asked me where I was from, and when I said the US, he said “America. Beautiful country. Hollywood.” More chatter, much of which I couldn’t understand, and after another fifteen minutes, he shook my hand and left. The conversation illustrated why Italians don’t understand me when I try to speak their language.
I’m so tired that I don’t even have the energy to find a decent dinner. I’m getting cold and starting to feel sorry for myself. My watch clicks over to 7 PM, the church bell peals 30 times and metal doors start rolling down over shop fronts. Marie shows up, and I wave to get her attention as she is looking for a woman with luggage. “Nope, that would not be me” I reply.
This building was a convent in the 14th century, and Maria demonstrates the acoustics by flicking on a light switch, which we can hear as it clicks on at the bottom floor. Mother Superior could always hear the front door.
She swings open the heavy green door and closes it behind me as I start to gasp. “Oh My WORD!” There’s a Marble Man standing in a grotto in the courtyard, and the customary but much more narrow wrought iron gate.
She says I’m clever not packing so much stuff as my room is at the top of the building. Every floor elicits another “Oh MY” and she starts to giggle. She apologizes that the rustic Chinese room I wanted is already occupied but she hopes to at least show it to me tomorrow. She shows me to the room I think is called Luna. I spend my first half hour there, just taking pictures.
This room is three times the size of the one I’m staying in in Firenze and includes a working kitchen, decorated with mirrors and handmade blue tiles. The bathroom — complete with the mosaic ship from the photo on their website — is the size of the main room and includes a full size bathtub, a rarity among European B&Bs.
The view from this room is the courtyard where the Marble Man lives, formed by four 14th century towers. Not the splashy view indicated on their website, but one which is much more quiet and sublime. I could easily take up residence here.
The lack of WIFI presents a problem with planning my day tomorrow. The web pages I saved to my netbook are corrupted, and I really wish I had printed this stuff out. A cursory look through this room hasn’t yielded a guidebook yet, so I plan to look for one tomorrow. Meanwhile, I think I’ll take a nice, hot bath…
May 4, 2011
This morning I take a walk to the train station in preparation for my trip to Genoa tomorrow. I locate it without any problem, walk around inside to make sure I can find all the gates, and then walk across the street to buy a day pass for the bus. My first blisters appear at 11 AM.
I hop onto the D bus back to the hotel, and take a short walk to the Pitti Palace. I spend over two hours in the costume gallery alone, about half of that time sitting at the computer in the back room, looking at slides of all the pieces they have in storage. My note says to ‘see my notebook for notes on those collections’ but it now appears those notes were lost, along with large sections of my original journals from the past two days 🙁
After an obligatory stop at the Library Store and lunch at the cafeteria (a typically Italian caprese salad and a caffe latte) I exit the building in time to hear a cacophony of church bells which you can hear below:
I head out to the Boboli Gardens, where wander for much of the rest of the day. My last trip to Florence ended here, so this is my official starting point for this trip. The grounds date back to 1550 and cover an extensive area behind the Pitti Palace.
I am disappointed to find the Island Fountain (Vasca dell’Isola) is locked. There are a number of tourists, and several of us spot a heron perched on the edge of the fountain on that island. I never find the Perseus on Horseback that is supposed to be partially submerged here, and wonder if it has been moved. I ask a fellow tourist to take my photo next to the sandstone columns that support the locked iron gates which block our path to the garden. They are topped with marble Capricorns, symbolizing Cosimo Medici. The lemon trees are full of fruit.
I wander through the cypress arbors that run the length and breadth of this park, a feature I am exceedingly fond of. I rest for awhile on one of the rustic benches in one of these arbors, just to listen to the birds and relax my eyes in the dappled shade. There are so many birds in this garden…
There are several statuary here, displaying such a broad range of styles and time periods that at times the mix is jarring. I find the grotto, one of the buildings I missed the last time I was here. It is dark and in disrepair.
I figure out how to take a movie with my camera, and capture a video of thebirds and running water as I walk along the Mostaccini Fountain.
I come here to drop coins and well-wishes into the mouths of the Mostaccini for friends and family, and walk along the length of it, admiring the fantastical heads, of which no two are the same. It was built in the early 1600’s as a water source for birds, which were then hunted with nets.
I find the Porcelain Museum, but I’m not as impressed with it as I am the view, and with the garden just outside the door with its pink roses and peonies surrounded by a boxwood maze. On the way back down the sloping grounds, I find a bench overlooking the Forcone Basin, a collection point for water used to irrigate the grounds. In the center of the Forcone stands a bronze Neptune, dating to 1571 and sculpted by Soldo Lorenzi, originally intended for a flower garden north of the Pitti Palace, but moved here here in about 1635. It was common for artworks here to have been commissioned for specific places, and then later moved.
Galileo’s house is supposed to overlook this garden, but I cannot find it, so I decide to walk up to the Piazza Michelangelo and look for the house on my way back. The #12 or #13 buses go directly to the piazza but I can’t find the stop to catch it at, so I start the exhaustive climb up the hill. Once there, the view was the reward…the best panorama of the city outside of the Ghiotti Tower.
Just as I am looking for a place to eat, I find a #13 bus waiting in the parking lot, so I hop on. It seemed like a good idea at the time…
The bus took a lovely meandering scenic route back down the hill, and along the Strozzi Wall which I would not have seen else wise. But I didn’t get off when I should have, and ended up in a completely different part of town. Off the bus, I take my usual ‘turn left instead of right’ navigational style which made matters much worse. I finally ask an elderly passerby to please point me in the direction of the Ponte Vecchio, and she waved me off with some annoyance, in the direction I had just come. I spend the next hour trying to find my way back to the Arno Fiume. I never did find the abode of the great Galileo…
At one point I see the two construction cranes that I had seen from the Piazza Michelangelo, and a few minutes later, the Duomo, so I keep those landmarks in my sight as I trudge wearily along, keeping as close to the riverbank as I can. Walking, walking, walking, oh, look, there’s the Strozzi Wall that I passed while I was on the bus! Finally I arrive back in the land of ‘houses with green shutters’. The heels of my shoes are about an 1/8 of a inch shorter now than they were this morning.
It has been a long day and I am Famished with a capital F. I pop into Dante’s for dinner. I order a glass of chianti, bread with olive oil, pappardelle in wild boar sauce, and a nice piece of salmon. The boar is a surprise, I expect it to taste like pork but it’s more like deer. I watch the wait staff ignore the line of customers at the door even though there are empty tables. The atmosphere seems a little uptight and I finish my meal quicker than I intend to, just so I can leave. Back in my room, I pack for Genoa…
For photos of this trip, please visit my supplemental travel blog at Daveno Travels.
May 2, 2011
It begins. Another rainy day in Seattle. Last minute chores. Last cuddles with OdinCat and a final visit with BusterBird. A side trip to the post office to pay my rent. The 10:15 AM bus to the Metro tunnel which I almost miss, the 10:45 Lightrail which whizzes past the Franz “Slice of White Bread” sign that always cracks me up. My longest sojourn away from home is now officially underway.
I’m glad I followed the extreme-sounding recommendation of allowing three hours for an international flight at SeaTac Airport. It felt like I spent half that time walking from the Lightrail station to the Lufthansa gate, which are at exact opposite ends of each other. The flight is completely booked and they are weighing bags for Economy passengers. Mine is too heavy for a carry on, so it is taken from me and checked. I am several gates away before I realize that the locks for my suitcase are still in my pocket…I am SO glad I repacked again last night, moving my train tickets and back up cash into my purse. I mentally inventory the contents of that bag and decide that a lost bag won’t be a calamity. I still have my netbook and can Google the stuff I need again I may be traveling much lighter than I had planned. Ever the pessimist, my mantra for today is: “what’s travel without a little stress…”
The in-flight movies seem a better diversion than my book, so I watch ‘TRON,’ which is nice eye candy but it is not Jeff Bridges’ best 1.5 hours. ‘The Tourist’ was really great and I was pleasantly surprised to see Sowel and Bettany, two of my favorite actors, in supporting roles. Bettany’s “Liechtenstein” line was a hilarious segue that you would only appreciate if you were familiar with his role as Chaucer in ‘Knight’s Tale.’
I catch about three hours of sleep on the Seattle to Frankfurt flight. I wake up at 3:30 AM to see a blue and purple pre-dawn sky above the rugged, icy expanse of the Arctic.
We land in Frankfurt at about 9 AM Tuesday. Oh Frankfurt, how I am learning to hate you. A full body frisk includes a visual peek down the front of my pants! The alarm was set off by the safety pin I used to secure my money belt, which had to be scanned separately. Bin Ladin may be dead but his legacy lives on.
I cannot get through this airport without leaving something behind. Last year it was jewelry. This trip it’s a water bottle and almost my camera and my hat. My shopping list now includes ‘things to intentionally leave in Frankfurt to appease the travel god…’
The flight to Florence is delayed, but neither the delay nor the change of gate is announced. I make a mad dash to the opposite end of the concourse to the new gate, happy now that I had to check my bag. It’s a short flight but there is significant turbulence during landing. Nauseous and disoriented, I have such difficulty finding the exit that a plain clothes police officer stops me and asks my nationality and purpose of my trip, but lets me pass without requesting my passport.
Finally finding the way outside, I find the bus that will take me to my B&B. “San Frediano?” I ask, and the driver nods, before taking off full speed on twisty roads that don’t seem to have any lanes, and which add to my queasiness. Fortunately, a fellow passenger tells me where my stop is after the driver fails to respond.
I get off the bus and walk up and down the street several times before I remember that in Florence, B&B’s don’t have signs, you have to look for a labeled doorbell. Finally I find one for S. Frediano. But its the wrong S. Friediano! I find the San Frediano Mansion Via Borgo further down the street, obscured by scaffolding
I’m surprised to find a lift here, just big enough for two people with a small suitcase each. Gigantic rolling American luggage will not do you any favors here. The lobby is exactly as shown on their website. My room has no ambiance or view but is adequate and has a small safe and a private bath. Downstairs, at the back of the building, through two immense leaded glass doors, lies a garden with a grape arbor over a bench, where I am sitting as I write this. Calla lilies and iris are blooming here already. The iron gate on the street side overlooks the Arno Fiume (Arno River).
I Love This City! It feels impossible get lost here. And unlike my last trip here where I stayed downtown, here I’m in the San Frediano neighborhood, surrounded by the churches of Santo Spirito, San Frediano and Santa Maria, and within a block of a pharmacy, two laundromats, a couple of convenience stores, and plenty of cheap eats. It’s lasagna for dinner, which has a texture more like pudding than the heavy pasta American version.
After dinner, I walk around until dusk, and then head back to my quiet room to review my sight seeing plan for the next day, and let dreams come as I drift off to sleep on this, the first day of my grand adventure…
This story starts today, December 20, 2010, the day of the Solar Eclipse Solstice. The double celestial occurrence portends a most fortuitous day. I receive a gift – an opportunity to take an extended trip abroad, to any country I choose…
I am new to the world of travel and have only been off continent once before. I had promised myself that if another opportunity ever arose, I would begin where I last ended, in Florence. But I have been given a gift of three weeks – the longest I have ever been away from home in my entire life. I want to see as much as I can in the time I’ve been given, without wasting it on planes, trains, trams and trolleys. I buy a map that afternoon, and spend the evening letting my fingers walk across the European landscape.
I could go west to France, or to Spain. Or north into Scandinavia. Or perhaps south to the Mediterranean. Suddenly, for no explicable reason, my index finger took on a mind of its own and traced a route east, and stopped…
… on Istanbul.
Istanbul? Well, after all, it was once Constantinople, the center of the European universe during the Roman and medieval periods, and the crossroads for trade from East to West for several centuries. So, Italy and Istanbul it is. My Crossroads Tour and my next solo grand adventure…
I spend the next several days locating hotels, matching my criteria for historic buildings located in ‘Old Town / Historical Districts’. In Florence it’s the San Friedano Mansion, housed in a 15th century palazzo near the Boboli Gardens and the Medici Palace, with frescoed ceilings and WIFI. In Genoa, a rustic room in the Ducale Genova, one of three rooms in this bed and breakfast in a 14th century tower that once housed a convent. In Istanbul, a small boutique hotel with red rooms furnished with a riot of color that I equate with Turkish culture, again with private baths and WIFI, and with what appears to be a restaurant. The Hotel Han is a converted Ottoman residence, located in the historic Sultanahmet District, within walking distance of most of the things I want to see.
The next few months are filled with guidebooks and transportation schedules, and what would be failed attempts to learn even the most rudimentary of phrases in both Italian and Turkish. I am amused with my horoscope on April 3 – “a day for making plans and ‘symbolic beginnings’, and which favors trips and long journeys…” A netbook arrives from one of my brothers, and gifts of money from the rest of my family, enough to put towards the purchase of a Turkish rug. Shopping for shoes, and a watch, and power adapters, and a myriad of other things. Income taxes, and news filled with much ado about a Royal Wedding. Gallery orders and commissions to finish. My gardens have become either very lush or a Great Big Mess, depending on your perspective.
I add additional cities to my tour of Italy. In contrast, Istanbul remains the singular destination in Turkey. I register with the State Department to allay fears from a close friend of being kidnapped in that Islamic country. I use the trip as an excuse to finish some stalled projects, most notably my estate plan. ‘In case I decide to not return,” I jokingly say to my family and friends as they are each given a packet of instructions for how to deal with every facet of my life, should they need to. “Which we won’t need to do,” is the unison response. A final weekend with Odin, my cat and companion.
And then, this remarkable journey begins…
February 17 – Venice to Florence
I arrive at the train station in Venice a couple of hours early, and sit outside on the broad expanse of steps, enjoying the sunset, the church bells filling the chilling air, the sky variegating from grey at the horizon, to rose, to robin-egg blue. I sit outside as long as I can, before heading inside to find my train…
Marie compared the train station here to Hogwart’s in the Potter series. I impress myself at figuring out the timetable and which platform to board the train from. I board, and find my window seat, but it will be dark soon so I won’t be able to see much. The seats are bench seats, facing each other, with a table between, remind me of the BC Ferry. My traveling partners soon arrive, a nice older couple on their way to Rome. I wish I could speak Italian so I could have chatted with them for the next 2.5 hours.
The train stops at every station but the stops are not called out. Even though my stop is over two hours away, I fight to stay awake, fearful of falling asleep and ending up in Rome.
We pass a stop for Bologna, and I dig a map out of my briefcase to figure out where I am. It looks like another half hour, maybe a couple more stops. Finally, knowing we are getting close, I pull on my cap and look with anticipation out the window. The man across the table from me picks up on that. When we come to that stop, he looks at me and smiles, and says “Firenze” and I look back at him, and smile, and say “I know.” I’m so happy to be here that I wake right up…
Unlike Venice, Florence is a well planned city, laid out on a grid that looks exactly like the map in my hand. I was struck immediately by it’s size in relation to Venice. And then I was nearly struck by a car — a sudden realization that I am back in a city with motor vehicles.
I find the Hotel Bavaria without any difficulty, and the massive wooden door to the palazzo was still open, so I squeeze through, but the stairwell light went off just as I got there. I tread cautiously to the top of the ancient stone staircase, only to find that I can’t read a damn thing in the pitch black. Back down the stairs I go, nearly missing a step, finding a handrail that isn’t actually attached to the wall, and back outside to the door buzzer. The lights come on, and I am promptly escorted in.
The concierge walks me back up the stairs, and through a massive common room lined with shabby furniture that is out of place for the rest of the room, except for a heavy, dark wood dining table that will seat about eight people. She takes me to a door, unlocks it, and turns to me to tell me that I have a really big room…
The room is everything I had hoped it would be. My eyes, are drawn up to the ceiling, all beamed, frescoed. The floor is red, grey and black looks-like-stone tiles. There are three beds, a small writing table and chairs in front of the window, and a wardrobe with a key. The doorways are in alcoves because the interior walls are over a foot thick. This room is as big as my living room and kitchen combined, or the size of a suite in an American hotel.
I then notice the complete absence of anything electrical; no TV, no phone, not even a clock. Just a room in the top of a building, built in about 1568 by Bartolomeo Ammannati, sculptor and architect to the Medici family. This room could not have been more perfect had I built and decorated it myself. I turn on all the lights so I can study the ceiling all night.
I make some notations in my log that I forgot to include while I was still in Venice:
A Logia, the Duomo and a Medici Palace
It’s 4:15 AM and I am wide-awake. I stay in bed, continuing to study the ceiling and the rest of the room. Between 4:30 and 5, a fierce windstorm hits. Heavy wooden doors are fitted with modern locks. There’s a niche in the stucco wall, with a stone basin built into it; I wonder if it was once a fountain. Pigeons are echoing through the ceiling. The church bells have been ringing hourly since 5 AM. The sun comes up at about 6:45.
Time to get up.
The bathroom has a bidet, toilet, pedestal sink, and shower all in the same room, without any separate enclosure for the shower. The shower water falls coarsely, like a waterfall. If I were a man I would have opened the shutters for a view to the outside while I bathed.
Breakfast is served in what must have been a pantry/storage area, with a low ceiling, heavily beamed. Breakfast is yogurt with muesli flakes, sweetened with honey, a hard roll with butter and jam, and thin coffee. Back in my room, I bundle up because everyone who came into the breakfast room was wearing a parka. I’m off to the Duomo.
Florence. Home of the Renaissance and center of the medieval universe for banking and textile trade. Home of the Medici and the artists they patronized, many of whom felt their work to be the extension of God’s work, and who would become global legends in their own right. A city touched by the revival of Greek and Roman classicism. Within my first few minutes of walking around the city, I nearly toss my itinerary into the nearest trash can.
The austere beauty of this place, with its stone walls and fortifications, is astounding. I thought Venice was the most beautiful city I had ever seen, until arriving here. I am in pursuit of architecture and sculpture and I’m not disappointed. The very first thing I see is not one, but several of the sculptures on my list, gathered in La Loggia dei Lanzi, on the Vecchio Square.
The Loggia, built between 1376 and 1382, was originally the place where priors (city guild leaders) were inducted, and later served as a forum for public debate. The Medici family turned it into an outdoor statuary gallery. And what a gallery! The bronze ‘Perseus’ by Cellini, who nearly burned his house down during the casting of it. The Rape of the Sabines, in marble, by the Flemish sculptor Giambologna — the compelling depiction of a Roman soldier tearing a man away from his wife. A half dozen original Roman works. Behind me and to the right, the Neptune Fountain by Ammanati, installed for one of the Medici weddings.
The stonework in the buildings is roughly hewn, and long expanses of 14th century walls are studded every 20′ or so with wrought iron torch holders. I look up and see 14th century wooden eaves (called corbelling) that were outlawed as an architectural element in the 15th century because they blocked too much sunlight from the street. As I am photographing one of the more ornate ones, I realize that I am looking at a top-floor patio, not glassed in, with framed frescoes on the ceiling.
A few blocks down, I see a 12th century turret in an alley, nestled between more modern buildings. There are crenelations on a number of buildings dating back to the 13th and 14th centuries. I arrive at the massive Duomo Cathedral, and walk around it at least three times, but never manage to find the entrance to the dome climb. So I climb the Campanile instead, 414 effortless stone steps.
I laid down in one of the stairwell archery slots to measure its depth and to peer through the arrow slot in the 5′ thick wall. At the top of the tower, I have a great view of the entire city, as seen through the graceful Gothic archways of this tower.
Back down the 414 steps, and through a street of vendors, to the Medici Palace. There’s a substantial number of open air markets here, that feel like Pike Place Market in Seattle, or Saturday Market in Portland, but with a much broader array of manufactured (not handcraft) goods.
I find the Medici Chapel — a low, vaulted ceiling cloister that now serves as a crypt for many of the Medici family. I manage to miss the Library, but I find the Chapel of Princes, a towering, octagonal, domed structure, with niches for each of the six Medici sovereigns.
About a third of this room is enveloped in scaffolding, a demonstration of the ever popular and ongoing restoration work that continues on these structures.
The Church of San Lorenzo is part of this Medici complex, and the church the Medici prayed in, married in, and buried their dead in for over 300 years.
The interior of this basilica, designed by Brunelleschi at the behest of the Medici, is masterful. It was here that I was introduced to the works of Donatello, who would become my favorite sculptor by the time I left here. His bronze pulpit, supported on four marble columns, rivaled the relief work of the Ghiberti doors at the Baptistry. It was also here that I discovered a reliquary of glass fitted with silver, the size of a child’s coffin, and containing the bones of a saint, upon whose skull rested a delicate, scroll worked crown, looking very much like the inspiration for the coronet that was crafted for an SCA friend of mine, except that this crown also included bezels for stones over the scrollwork. And now I can hardly wait to tell her…
I enter the Duomo, said to be the fourth largest cathedral in the world, following St. Peter’s in Rome, St. Paul’s in London, and Milan Cathedral.
A brisk wind has picked up, and although the day is clear and sunny, it has turned biting cold. I duck into Café Duomo, where I am presented with a brunch menu, from which I choose a Greek omelet, hash browns, and expresso, which I have learned to drink with just a sprinkling of raw sugar over the foam. Yum!
My next stop is the Accademia. I walk into a room of recognizable icons, triptychs and other religious works. I study each one, until I get through about two-thirds of the room, at which point, all paint starts to look the same.
In the center of one of these rooms of icons, stands a plaster cast of “Rape of the Sabines”. Many of the statues that I had seen earlier this morning are replicas, the originals have been moved inside to more protective surroundings. But I appreciate the replicas nonetheless, as it allows me to see these sculptures and bronzes in the manner in which the artist originally intended, freshly carved or cast, and free of blemish…
I am eager to see a singular original work that is housed here, but I restrain myself from running past several unfinished works by Michelangelo, and on, very slowly, respectfully, nearly religiously, to the man himself…
…the magnificent David…
He’s much whiter and more translucent than I was expecting, standing 17 feet tall under a softly lit dome that was build especially for him. The first thing I notice is how large his hands are, and how out of proportion they are with the rest of his features. My guidebook attributes this to “the hand of a man with the strength of God.”
Other out of proportion elements that people pick up on, may be due to the forced perspective that Michelangelo used, as this statue was originally intended for installation on the southern roof of the Duomo. The back of the David, with his sling slung over his shoulder and draping down his back, is as detailed as the front. Veins, muscles, carved into stone. He is unbelievably beautiful.
I tear myself away from the David and investigate the room behind him. The Salone dell’Ottocento, filled with shelves to the ceiling of marble busts and plaster cast models that were the “final exam” pieces by the students of the Accadamia. My very first thought upon entering the room is the catastrophic loss that would occur if this room suffered an earthquake. The thought of being crushed to death by so many falling marble busts, was secondary to the destruction of so many irreplaceable pieces.
Several pieces by Bertolinni (19th century) catch my eye, so much so that by the time I am all the way through the room, I can pick them out without even reading the placards. An amusing piece of statuary shows three children in a tumble, representing Lust, Love and Vice, with Love on top of the dog pile, symbolizing that ‘love conquers all.”
Another room of paint contains earlier icons, many pieces by Daddi (13th century) who has a recognizable style, and who becomes my new favorite painter of the medieval period. I make another Mecca-esque circle around the David on my way out.
I’m pretty frustrated with museum shops here. The one that holds the greatest promise, I revisit several times, looking for a catalog for the Accademia. I visit a bookstore, looking for something on the works of Donatello, but find nothing.
I walk past gated hotel courtyards, and see one with a piece of installation art in the form of a half scale rhino which appears to be made from paper-mache. Around the corner, I snap a photo of a line of parked mopeds. The moped is to Florence what the gondola is to Venice…
The famous bronze Boar Fountain sits at the edge of the Mercato Nuovo, a 16th century open air loggia that houses a street market. Originally, gold and silk was sold here, it later became the place where people met to exchange news about boats coming in and out of Liverno and Pisa. It is said that if you rub the boar’s bronze snout and toss a coin into the fountain, you will return to Florence. I do the same, but by now, I have already made the decision to return here.
I stumble across the Duomo Museum (Museo dell’Opera di Santa Maria del Fiore). What a find! It turns out to be the workshop for Donatello and Brunelleschi, and where Michelangelo carved the David. The Pieta resides here, the sculpture and self portrait of Michelangelo as one of the three mourners at Christ’s removal from the Cross, and the piece that Michelangelo had designed for his own tomb. The museum houses the Madonna with Glass Eyes; Donatello’s scary Mary Magdalene, carved from white poplar; a pair of balconies carved by Robiba and Donatello; and the original panels from the Ghiberti doors, which are displayed the same way they were when the panels visited the Seattle Art Museum last year. Upstairs, I find a nice collection of Byzantine vestments, made up of brocade, embellished with random squiggles of gold cording. The visit to this museum was worth my while.
The Baptistery of San Giovanni is the oldest building in the Duomo complex, sitting near the Duomo Cathedral and the Giotti Tower (aka the Campanile). The Baptistery is one of the oldest buildings in Florence, and an excellent example of Florentine Romanesque architecture, borrowing elements from both Classic and Byzantine styles.
The Ghiberti Doors — The Gates of Paradise
Although there are a number of sculptures and other elements that should have caught my attention on the exterior of the Baptistery, I was fixated on the bronze doors which were one of two things that topped my list of “must sees” for this city. I was only mildly disappointed that these doors – like many other pieces I would see on this trip – are replicas.
The original panels, some of which have been restored and are now encased in nitrogen-filled glass cases (the same panels I saw on exhibit in Seattle), are now housed in the Duomo Museum. But the replica doors are no less stunning, and allowed me to see them as they were originally installed, each panel having a specific forced perspective, depending on where it was placed on these tall and massive doors.
One of my guidebooks equates some of the panels, or at least their placement on the door, to the political events of the time. The Joseph panel, showing distribution of grain and an embrace of forgiveness, is thought by some to be a reference to Cosimo’s return to Florence from exile, with other panels seen as pointing to the union between Greek and Roman churches as ratified by the Council of Florence in 1439.
The process Ghiberti used to make the Gates of Paradise followed those of Pisano, lost wax, chasing, and gilding by dissolving gold in mercury, and committing the panels to the furnace where the mercury vaporized, leaving the gold adhered to the bronze. This method of gilding was highly toxic, even by Renaissance standards, and I cannot imagine that the life span of a foundry worker in Ghiberti’s shop, was a very long or healthy one.
When the doors were finally installed in 1452, Michelangelo is credited with saying that the doors were so beautiful that they were worthy of the “Gates of Paradise”, although others cite the reference simply to the doors being the entry way to baptism. Regardless, the colloquialism remains assigned to Ghiberti’s masterpiece to this day.
Inside the Baptistry…
Of all the elements that make up this place — the women’s gallery, the baptismal fonts, the marble mosaic “Oriental Carpet” floors, the Roman sarcophagi — the thing that held my attention the longest was the ceiling. This place could make a small fortune by renting gazing cots.
After trying to follow the intricacies of the mosaics in the floor, my eyes drifted up to the glittering gold glass which was the background for what I remember as predominantly blue mosaics, though my books picture it otherwise.
I stood for the longest time, as close to the center of the building as I could, turning in a slow spin, just trying to take the thing in. After a few minutes I gave up and sat down on the footrest of a back pew, just staring and trying to imagine the effect it would have had on a person from a much earlier century.
I finally pick myself back up for a final walk around. The Roman sarcophagi date from the 4th century, with the lid of one carved in 1299 with a sheep (symbol of the Wool Guild) and two versions of the now recognizable Medici arms, under which lies the remains of one of the many Medici family. The other marble tomb, also dating from the 4th century, serves as the resting-place for Bishop Velletri. Along another wall lies the resting-place of Bishop Ranieri, who served as Bishop of Florence for 42 years. The inscription is worthy of note: “a good and just man, wise and pleasing of appearance…”
I wish I had been able to figure out how to get up to the women’s gallery, to get close up and personal to the 14th century mosaics that cover the walls there, to stand in the alcove with the bottle glass window, and, of course, to get closer to the magnificence of the ceiling. So many reasons to return to Florence.
You will find additional photos of the Baptistry with its’ Ghiberti doors in my other blog at Daveno Travels.
I chance upon Dante’s House, where I buy a florin, and a book on medieval armor for Jim, a friend of mine.
I return to my hotel room and, foregoing a proper meal for lack of appetite, write postcards, letters and journal entries for the remainder of the night.
The Bargello Museum
I skipped breakfast and spent my morning trying to sketch a motif from one of the vestments I saw yesterday. The fierce winds of yesterday have died down, and the first impression I get on the street is of heavy cigarette smoke. There must be a very high per capita of smokers here.
The Bargello is remarkable as much for its architecture as much as its contents.
Once you get through the courtyard, past the cistern and statuary, up to the balcony where there are more sculptures and bronzes, you enter a room, very much like the Medici Chapel — low and vaulted, but painted lapis blue, and covered with gold painted stars. I kept reminding myself to look at the building as much as the artifacts.
Among my favorites:
Dinner, and retracing the day
I have caught myself several times today, wandering, having no idea where I was, yet never feeling lost. I look up, and amazingly I have arrived at my hotel without even meaning to. I unload my pockets and pick up my journal and pen. I visit the concierge, who reserves a taxi for me for 4:30 AM but doesn’t understand how to confirm my flight. I sit down at his computer and print my boarding pass, much to his amazement. I pay for my room and retrieve my passport, and look for a restaurant.
The first viable osteria I find is not seating for a half hour. I find the ring I was shopping for, at a shop whose window was full of heavy, silver, Medici-looking men’s rings. I settle on a convex band interrupted by a fleur-de-lis. “The symbol of Florence,” the young man says. Yes it is. The handmade, sterling piece becomes mine, and I pay for it and wear it out the door.
The osteria opens, and I sit down for a full course meal. If I ordered correctly, I anticipate onion soup, ravioli, spinach, and white beans, accompanied by a glass of Fonseca. I read my menu choices to the waiter in Italian, and he writes them down. He repeats the order back to me twice before I realize that is what he is doing. My Italian will never be fluent enough to converse here…
I record the events of the day. Of crossing the Ponte Vecchio, Florence’s version of the Rialto, spanning the narrowest part of the Aron River since Roman times. The bridge is covered with goldsmiths occupying the ground floors of buildings that still have crenelations and battlements at the roof line. Finding Santo Spirito closed, I will have to come back.
…My onion soup has just arrived, a thick gravy of pureed onion with a thick piece of toasted bread plopped in the center, mounded with fresh parmesan cheese. American “onion soup” ought to be downright embarrassed…
Back to the day. I wish the Boboli Garden had been my first stop, rather than one of my last. I walk past the 19th century Annalena Grotto, where a marble male and female stand in sheltered and eternal embrace. At the entrance to the garden, two Pompeiian villas, one a replica residence, the other a painter’s workshop, with gardens fenced in with lashed bamboo latticework. Red troughs catch water from the eaves on three sides of the courtyard. Plantings here include roses, pines, and medicinals that have not yet broken ground. The water in the fountains is frozen solid.
…The main course for my dinner has just arrived…four, lovely, plump ravioli, stuffed with spinach and a sublime white cheese, draped with truffle sauce, bite-sized chunks of porticini mushrooms scattered overall, fresh Parmesan on the side. Absolutely delicious. I look over at the next table, where an English couple are dining. They have ordered, predictably, fish and chips.
I recall the gardens and the olive arbors that stretch the entire length, intersecting with oak arbors running crosswise, dating back to 1620. A break in the arbors draws me up a hill to a secluded path where there’s a stone terraced trough, running the entire length of the road. They are bird troughs, in an area designed for hunting birds with nets. Each trough ends in a medieval bestiary head, which functions as a spitter, letting the rainwater escape through its mouth, into a basin, and down the next trough, to the next spitting head. It is called the Fountain of the Mostaccini, dating back to the 17th century.
It is there that I offered coins and prayers for the well-being of friends and family who remain after the calamitous losses of last year, during which ten people within my social circle, and at least as many whom I knew less well, left this world in favor of the next. What an impossible year it was. The last prayer is for myself, to cover all bases for the return flights home.
I had spent about half an hour in the Pitti Palace, mostly in the gift shop looking at catalogs to see what I was missing – shi-shi salons filled with 17th-18th century paintings and textiles. I decide to forgo it this trip, and returned to the gardens. I want to see sunset from the fountain, but I am compelled to leave before sunset in order to return to Santo Spirito.
…I have finished the ravioli, and the next plates arrive. A mound of spinach, sautéed in olive oil and garlic, which I try to polish off but simply can’t. White beans in tomato and sage sauce, a regional specialty, does not impress me as much, but my body screams for protein. Frank Sinatra belts a song out on the radio, in English, which is rather jarring.
I had found Santo Spirito Cathedral, after asking a passer by for directions. I sat on the wide expanse of stone stairs, sharing the fading sun with church goers and pigeons, waiting for the doors to open. Once inside, I find this cathedral to be very similar to San Lorenzo, though it feels quite a bit larger. I thought Michelangelo was buried here but I cannot find the crypt. The central presbyter is stunning, flanked by 4-foot tall angels, some with black wings. A working knowledge of Latin would be really helpful before I return here, in order to read the plaques. It is chilly here, and time to leave.
…The waiter has returned, but I have no room for desert. I finish my wine, and leave as the noisy dinner crowd starts to arrive.
I want to walk around on my last evening here, and I head back towards the Duomo. It is very cold, and a sharp breeze has kicked up. The homeless are out, and I walk through a pack of Jamaicans, their belongings wrapped in bedsheets. A police car arresting someone, and my skin prickles as I pass a pair of young men, signaling that it’s time to return to my hotel.
I need to come back. To visit Venice for a day for Carnivale, and to spend the rest of the week in Florence. Fewer churches next time, more gardens, palaces and museums. More time just walking around the city. Another trip to the Baptistry. An entire day at the Boboli Gardens. Or at least the latter half of the day, so I can see the sunset…
It was a sleepless night in the Sultanahmet. I was up until 1 AM tearing my room and my luggage apart, looking for my camera charger. Jackhammers pounded until well after midnight to demolish the building next door, and a steady stream of bricks was heaved into the dumpster below my window until about 2 AM. Morning calls to prayer wake me back up at 4:30 AM. I try to nap until 7:30 before giving up. I’m so sleep deprived and exhausted that I can barely function. And now I cannot unlock my door to leave my room…
I sit down with a pen and paper and using my Turkish phrase book, try to translate my question about my camera charger. I collect everything I need for the day before finally outsmarting the lock on my door. Downstairs, the old hotelier will look for the address for a nearby camera shop while I’m at breakfast. By the time I finish, he is gone.
It’s overcast outside, much like my mood. I’m still physically exhausted and now mentally fatigued from my ears being filled with the harsh sounds of a language I cannot interpret. I cannot get onto the WIFI for the Google maps I was depending on. I should have bought a scarf yesterday so I could visit the mosques today. In spite of the sites I saw yesterday, Istanbul may have been too challenging for me to handle, and I am ready to buy a return plane ticket if I can ever get online…
It’s not even 9 AM.
Get a grip already! I pick up my guidebook and plan my day. The Cistern is just down the street from Hotel Han, that’s easy. I decide to leave my camera at home to conserve the battery for the remainder of the week.
Among the Corinthian and Ionic columns is a pair of Medusa heads that support a couple of the columns, which are thought to date back to the Roman era. My favorite version of the story is that they were placed here as a protective talisman for the building. One of the heads was placed upside down, the other placed on its side so that people could look upon the faces without being turned to stone.
There are fish in the water. It is very calm and cool here, and I start my book collection in the gift shop before exiting. BOOKS ! ! ! !
Further down the street is Sultanahmet Square, a lovely stretch of fountains and gardens that form a courtyard between the Ayasofya and the Blue Mosque. As I am walking, an older Turkish gentleman matches my stride and strikes up a conversation. His English is very good. He tells me he’s a retired history teacher, and happy to see Americans here. I ask if he is looking for money but he just wants to show me his family rug shop after he has shown me the cathedral, which I need to hurry to see since it closes today at noon for sabbath prayers. With some hesitation, I say OK…
He pushes me to the front of the line, we bag our shoes in the plastic bags we are handed at the door, and he proceeds to give me a really informative tour of the famous Blue Mosque.
This is my first visit to a mosque and I am surprised at how light and airy the interior is, a radical departure from the dark churches in Florence. The dome stands 141 feet above the floor and is over 100 feet wide. There are 260 windows; my guide tells me that the stained glass ones over the eastern wall (facing Mecca) are copies of the originals which have either deteriorated or been destroyed. The interior boasts over 21,000 blue tiles made in the factories at the city of Iznik. Verses from the Kor’an embellish the walls here, many of them from the hand of Seyyid kasim Gubari, who was regarded as the greatest calligrapher of his time.
My guide also points out the elephant’s feet columns which I would later learn are a predominant feature in many mosques, a weight bearing detail that allows for large expanses of space to be uninterrupted by columns. He points out the gallery where the sultan used to sit with his guards during prayer, and the tile work in the lower half of the balconies, and that the ceiling is painted rather than tiled. The beauty and expanse of it brings me to tears.
We exit and I follow him to his family’s rug shop. Having been through this process yesterday, I think I’m better prepared for this visit. Along the way, he points out the yellow building that is the police station, and the Million Mile marker from which the Roman Empire was measured. And then, unbelievably, we arrive at the carpet shop I was at yesterday! I refuse to go in. “I bet you work for Mustafa, with whom I spoke yesterday.” And when he confirms it, I say, “Thank you for the tour. And goodbye!”
I return to my hotel room for a rest, I crack open my laptop, and remember that it has a webcam. Oh yeah, a second camera… it’s harder to use but at least its something if I cannot find a new battery charger for my camera. I pose on my bed, lining my head up with one of the motifs on the bedspread, which circles my head like a halo. Oh look, I’m a Turkish Bodhisattva : )
I head downstairs for lunch, where I meed a new concierge, a pleasant young man who asks me how things are going. I tell him things are OK. Well, except for the construction… and morning prayers… and I’m running on about two hours of sleep… and the battery charger… His English is pretty good and he has a very melodic and soothing voice.
He seats me at a table and pours me a cup of American style coffee. He asks me what my program is for today, and starts suggesting sites I should see, including Chora Church, the Suleyman Mosque and some Turkish bathhouse built by Suleyman’s architects’ teacher. I am listening, but I am so tired…
I drink my coffee, and he pours me another cup. He asks for my netbook and fixes my WIFI connection. He offers to make reservations at a turkish bath or perhaps a cruise to the Black Sea. He asks for my map, and frowns before replacing it with one from his drawer. He then sits down with me and starts circling sites on it, “my program for the day.” His name is Baha, the hotel manager, and he remembered handling my reservation. He will take me to the camera store after I finish my coffee.
He walks with me for several blocks to a camera store that I would have never found on my own. At one point he pulls me by the shoulders and gently guides me away from the path of an oncoming tram, which are as much a threat to pedestrians here as cars and bikes.
At the camera shop, he handles the transaction. There’s some banter about the price, and the charger has to come from a different store. Baha introduces me to the shopkeeper as one of his American guests. Another man there identifies himself himself as Iranian, and with a big smile on his face, reaches out to shake my hand. A salesmen pulls out a stool for me to sit on. Thinking that Baha’s work is done here, I expect him to leave, but he doesn’t. And so we wait…
Istanbul is starting to feel a little more welcoming, and my attitude is starting to readjust. The charger finally arrives and we leave the store. I ask Baha about the Topkapi Palace and he takes me there. We walk past what I think is the palace, but which is actually the park surrounding it. Baha points and says ” You must see it. It is huge, like city” as he draws an expansive circle in the air. “Huge,” I mimic, and we both laugh. He drops me off and takes my charger back to my room. I am grateful for him going the extra mile. It’s not a level of service I have encountered anywhere else thus far…
For the few photos I was able to take on this day, please go to Daveno Travels.
Written by Heather Daveno, 1988.
The Search in China and Mongolia
The legend of Prester John was continued by European explorers and missionaries as they traveled through China. During the 3rd Crusade, John of Joinville, the chief chronicler for Louis IX of France, wrote of two envoys where were sent to Kuyuk Khan, bearing with them a chapel and necessaries for holding Mass (it had been understood that Kuyuk was Christian). Upon their arrival, they were received by Oghul, who explained that her husband, Kuyuk, had died. As she had become Regent until the next khiraltai, she accepted the chapel as tribute, and demanded similar offering each year. Joinville wrote that in a letter by the King of the Mongols, Prester John had been killed by the Mongolians. Modern speculation is that this story is based on the murder of Togrul Khan by Chinghis Khan in 1203.
Download the rest of the story below.
Written in 1988 by Heather Daveno. Continued on Part 2, including End Notes
As I was researching the wives of the Mongolian khans, I ran across a reference to a tribe called the Kerait¹ – a Christian tribe of Turko-Eurasian ethnicity who had been absorbed by the Mongolian Federation of Tribes under Chinghis Khan during the 12th century. The women of this tribe, with their auburn hair, fair skin and gray or green eyes, were so renowned for their beauty, that they are credited with saving their tribe from obliteration by serving as wives and concubines to the great Mongolian khans.
These women introduced two little known characteristics into the Mongolian ruling families — auburn hair and pale eyes into an occasional offspring, and an obscure form of Christianity.
Missionaries from a Christian sect known as Nestorianism converted the Keraits, along with the Naiman and Merkit tribes, early in the 11th century. These Asian Christians became very different theologically from their counterparts in the West, and were perceived by Westerners as a strange and mythical cult. From this perception grew the fantastical legend of Prester John.
Read more about this fascinating piece of history below.
My first international flight takes me to Europe and the heart of Carnivale in Venice, February 2009.
You never forget your first time …
February 14 – Seattle to Frankfurt
I arrive at SeaTac shortly after noon to board my plane for Venice. It’s my first international flight, and immediately it becomes obvious, waiting at the gate, listening to the loudspeaker blasting out boarding calls for Beijing and Paris. I soon board a plane that is smaller than I had expected. I’m really glad I packed light. The luggage stow-away rack is well above my head, and a stranger offers silent assistance with my carry-on. Thank you…
Take-off is uneventful, and the flight has only the most occasional turbulence, during which I watch the interior of the plane serpentine, as though it were a Viking long ship. It’s a little disconcerting. I reset my watch to Frankfurt time, and read until I can fall sleep.
I get two hours of shut-eye before dinner. I fall right back to sleep afterward. By the time the plane lands, I am very ill. I’m the last passenger on the plane, and the stewards ask me if they need to call a doctor, which I decline. I Do Not Want to start my vacation from a hospital in Frankfurt!
I get off the plane and make it through the security checkpoint and onto my connecting flight for Venice. Once more on the ground, I realize I left my favorite ring and a couple of other things in Frankfurt customs. I resign myself to the fact that they are remnants of the past, and that I will find a new ring in Venice.
I find the bus stop, and find that some things are universal — crowded, standing room only buses being one of them. This bus is a cross between a city bus and an airport shuttle, apparently serving both purposes, outfitted with luggage racks but making stops about every two blocks. I’m annoyed that I’m starting this trip on a bad stomach. I strip down to a tank top to avoid becoming overheated on a bus that has non-functioning windows. I must be quite the sight, on a bus full of people dressed in parkas.
At last, I arrive at Piazzala Roma. I had thought a vaporetto would be a larger version of a gondola, but they are actually water buses, like the Vashon ferry. I find the one headed to “Rialto #1.” It seems to be pointed the wrong direction but I get on.The window glass is imbedded with a dot-matrix pattern that makes me queasy. But I look out the window as much as I can, and marvel at how much water traffic there is on the canal.
The Rialto Bridge is larger and more impressive than I had imagined. Passing under the massive arch of stone is like passing from night into day. Suddenly there are people everywhere, many in costume, but most in just hats or makeup. My brother Payne, in his historical garb, is waiting at the San Angelo stop, a short walk through aged alleys to the apartment they have rented on Calle Dei Avvocati (Street of Lawyers) for the next two weeks. He unlocks a massive, wooden door. I walk in to the grand foyer of what appears to be 15th century manor house.
Unbelievable! A stone-tiled floor, high vaulted ceiling, a thick, tall wooden door with a half-circle of wrought iron work above it. An old lamp hangs from an ornamental chain. Payne unfortunately does not have a key to unlock the back door, an iron gate which steps down to a landing and onto a small, green-water service canal. We go up a two-person lift to the third floor, where Marie, his wife, arises from a nap, already dressed in her harlequin street gown. I set my luggage down, and look out the window onto a vista filled with terra cotta tiled roofs, stretching out as far as I can see. My room also has a view of terra cotta roof tiles and wooden shuttered windows just across the alley. These views are nearly indescribable.
After a couple of glasses of water and a brief sit down, I change into my Venetian gown, and we set off, winding our way through alleyways and onto San Marco Square, the Grand Central for Carnivale. We turn the corner, and the landscape fills with the domes and towers of the Basilica. It takes my breath away.
The Basilica is not as tall as I imagined, but far more ornate than my camera can capture. We walk up to the facade, and within a few minutes, bells start to toll — first from the short church tower on the left, then from the taller tower on the right. Birds fly in a perfect shade-of-blue sky. The sudden transition to an earlier century is so complete and overwhelming that I stop in my tracks and start to cry. Marie, who has walked ahead with Payne, turns around, and comes back and puts her arm around me. “This is why we try to bring people here”…
It is hard to move quickly, or at times make any progress at all in this crowd. Payne is an extraordinary draw and tourists flock to him like paparazzi. Marie and I wait patiently for crowds to clear. We take two more steps, and stop again. We wander through to an adjoining square, where she gets some photos of Payne and I together, sitting at the feet of a bronze Venetian winged lion, at the foot of the statue Payne calls “the man with no hat”.
We wander through the “Italian Garden” that has been set up at one end of the square. It’s a combination of topiary, a small stage, and a perimeter made up of sheets painted with topiary, but with no attempt at tromp-de-toile. There is a larger than life topiary lion at one end of the garden, with eyes that light up, that is being hosed down by a workman. The entire scene is a juxtaposition of historic buildings, strands of twinkle lights suspended in the alleys, and large, modern light-sculptures in the “garden”. We find the Bridge of Sighs, completely boxed in with bright blue banners announcing restoration work, making it look more like a two dimensional billboard than an architectural structure.
At the end of the Doge’s Palace, we watch the sky fade from blue to pink, to deeper blue as the sun sets over the lagoon. Venus is clear and bright under a clear, cold sky. The setting sun hits the front of the Basilica, catching the gold mosaic tiles and turning them to fire. Drums start. And into the Italian Garden, careen three silver dragons — half man-on-stilts, half animatron-puppet — with heads extending 12 feet into the air on articulated serpentine necks, tails that look like a single, man-made feather, extending up another eight feet behind them, dancing in a choreographed drill… playing with the crowd… playing with each other… moving through the garden, and then out into the square for the next two hours.
We find our way to Caffe Florian, a baroque salon in operation since 1720, a favorite haunt of Goethe, Casanova (possibly because it was the only coffee house to admit women), and later, Lord Byron, Proust and Dickens. It is filled with costumed revelers, looking very much the part of 17th-18th century lords and courtesans. We are shown to a small table in one of the ornate and crowded salons, and order hot chocolate, which arrives as rich as though it were a Hershey Bar melted into a delicate, porcelain cup. The windows looking out are filled with people looking in, and it is hard to tell which side of the glass is the more active fish bowl. A man in white Carnivale attire, accompanied by a man in black (dressed like Mozart’s father in Amadeus), start hand signaling somewhat obscenely through the glass with a man sitting near us, and flirting with the man’s wife. Hysterical!
More walking over a myriad of small bridges, past an ornate church which none of us recognize, down a dead end, and back onto a plaza which turns out to be Campo Stefano. Vendors in street booths are selling Carnivale regalia. I buy a black tricorner hat, the traditional headwear of Carnivale. It’s wool, and warmer than the costume piece I brought with me. Dinner is at an osteria near the apartment. I eat half of what I order.
Back at the apartment. I stitch a black and gold veil to the back of my new hat. Marie says it needs a pin. I add that to tomorrow’s shopping list, along with writing paper, a mask, and a train ticket to Florence.
The Doges Palace
At 5:30 AM, the upstairs neighbor wakes up and turns on their lights, which reflect back off the brick and wood-shuttered windows of the building across the alley from my room. At 6:15, a broom hits the pavement, shooing a soda can down the street. A crescent moon hangs above the terra cotta tile rooftops. At 7 AM, church bells begin. Marie is up, and offers to go for a walk with me.
We set out at 7:30, and snap shots of the sunrise as it hits the buildings. It’s a really pleasant walk. Marie points out rooftop gardens on several of the buildings. There are no plantings at street level. I find the place to buy my train ticket. Marie buys blood oranges from a fruit stall, croissants from a baker who did not speak English, and I have my first Italian expresso “at the bar” to save on the 3 euro table charge. This coffee is dramatically different from anything I could hope to get at Starbucks.
After breakfast, I change into my Venetian gown, determined to dress in historical costume for the duration of my stay here. My tricorner hat, though not historically accurate to the cut of my gown, is teh-cute nonetheless, and I am very glad I bought it yesterday. We set out to find favorite shops, which takes the majority of the morning. We are lost much of the time, but see some pretty incredible ancient buildings and very narrow alleys with iron bridges crossing the narrow side canals. Even being lost, it is a good morning.
The other couple that is staying with us announce their arrival on Marie’s cell phone, so Payne and Marie leave to go meet them, and I am left to my own devices. I go to the Doge’s Palace.
The first thing I see is an ornately carved black gondola with an enclosed box over the seat, apparently to provide both shelter and privacy to the Doge on his excursions on the canal. I then check my bag, which was unfortunate, as I didn’t think to take my camera out first, nor did it occur to me to go back to retrieve it. DOH!!!
The sheer amount of sculpture in the courtyard outside of the Doge’s apartments is remarkable, and I wandered for quite a while. The most impressive section of the courtyard is the Foscari Arch, dating from the late 15th century, topped with gothic towers and ornamented with statuary symbolizing the arts, the work of masters of the Lombard School.
One of the next things I observed on the balcony was a lion face relief on the wall, with a mail slot for a mouth, above a carved placard that read “Denontie Secrete Inmaterie Distato.” It was the receiving box for secret notes from citizens, turning in other citizens for transgressions, although the local magistrates rarely took action on these accusations. There would be a few other, less ornate boxes throughout this building.
I enter the palace via the Scala d’Oro…the Golden Staircase, named after the 24-carat gold leaf adorning the arched, stucco ceiling, built by command of Doge Gritti during the mid-1500’s. At the top of the staircase began the Doge’s apartments, both public rooms, and later, private ones. There are no furnishings because each doge was expected to provide his own, and upon his death the furnishings were returned to his heirs.
The first room, a reception chamber, was filled with maps (the originals dated to the late 15th century), and two 6-foot globes in pedestals (dating to the 18th century), meant to underscore the importance of Venice as a world power. The fireplace here is wrapped in scaffolding.
It was at about the Corner Room, or perhaps the Ritratti, that I entered, oblivious to other people, as my neck was craned back in order to keep my eyes on the ceiling. I heard someone inhale sharply, and looked down to see an Italian couple, wide-eyed, looking back at me. “My god”, the man says, “when you walked into the room in your costume, we were just transported… Thank you!” I told him I was equally transported, being able to walk around in these buildings in period costume. I offered a humble “Grazie” before they left. What an experience that was, for all three of us.
The next floor houses the chambers of government. Incredibly lavish, every single surface of every room is ornamented with paint, gold, and fresco. My favorites were the Sala del Senato (the Senate Room), and the immense Sala del Maggior Consiglio (the Legislature Room, shown here). It measures 175′ x 80′, feels to be the size of a football field, and remains the largest room in all of Europe unsupported by columns. My least favorite room was the Quarantie (the Tribunals of Forty) where justice was meted out. This room had a distinctly different smell than the rest of the rooms, and was one of the last rooms that an accused person would stand in before crossing over the Ponte dei Sospiri (Bridge of Sighs) which links the courtrooms to the prisons on the other side of a canal.
The Armory displays a variety of weaponry dating back to the 14th century. Fully armored horses stand in a corner, behind glass. Two sets of tournament armor dating from 1490, and a child’s or dwarf’s armor recovered from a battlefield in 1515. The obligatory array of swords, a pair of exquisite Turkish recurve bows, 17th century guns, and an ornate bronze canon whose barrel could only facilitate shot the size of something halfway between a golf and a tennis ball.
Then a walk over the Bridge of Sighs, built in 1602 but named in the 19th century because it was the last view of Venice a prisoner would have before being committed to a cell for the rest of his life, looking out onto the lagoon through two small glass-with-iron-grate windows. The staircase leading to the prison cells was oppressive, and I was glad that it wasn’t more crowded when I was there. These rooms, considered by standards of the day to be more humane than most, would have still driven me to the brink of insanity had I had to stay in them for more than a few hours. Low, arched ceilings, over nothing more than a bench, originally lined with wood planking, and windowless save for the iron grate across the front. It was interesting to note that these cells continued to be used as an active prison up into the 1930’s.
I find the gift shop/museum store, but it’s woefully inadequate, a problem that would be pervasive throughout my stay here. I am incensed at the lack of photos of the Armory in the museum catalog. The triptychs and icons in the apartments aren’t in the guide either, which is really unfortunate since I wanted to learn more about the one that showed Mary in 13th century garb, crucified, as men in armor fainted away at the foot of her cross.
After a few more rooms, I arrive back out on the second story balcony. I retrieve my camera and find the top of the Scala dei Gigante, (Gigantic Staircase) which was the ceremonial approach to the palace and the place where the Doge was crowned. It is flanked on either side by statues of Mars and Neptune, installed in the mid-16th century. As I stand in that spot, I start to laugh. The butts of both Mars and Neptune are at eye-level — mooning the Doge during some of his most important ceremonies. It brings me to wonder if the placement of these two statues was politically motivated, and then I start laughing again as it is the last visage I have of this place.
I set out to buy a train ticket, with the intention of returning here to see the Basilica. I am lost for almost two hours before I start asking for directions, every 3 blocks, until I finally find the ticketing office I had seen this morning. I buy a ticket for a 6:30 departure tomorrow night, and head back to the Basilica.
What a maze this place is! I weave my way back to the square, only to find the queue in front of the Basilica is really long and full of tourist groups. I decide to shop for a new ring instead. But women’s fingers here are excruciatingly tiny and my hopes of finding a ring with a florin in it, or in fact any ring that will fit, begins to diminish. I decide I will look for one in Florence.
I return to the Basilica, but now it is 4 PM, which doesn’t leave me enough time to do it justice. So I head back to the apartment. Two hours later, I’m still walking around in circles. No matter which direction I leave San Marco Square, I always end up back here. I try to use a pay phones to call Payne and Marie but cannot figure out how to make them work. Even Italians are coming up to me, asking for help. It’s now dark, and I’m pretty certain Payne and Marie have started to worry. I am determined to figure this out.
I set out again, with my map, certain I have it oriented properly. I look up to see a wedding couple in front of me, and a really cool bank of gondolas as tourists start to book their evening cruises. I go over this bridge, that bridge, and yet another, and turn the corner, and… unbelievably… I am back in San Marco Square! Good God! I haven’t decided if I should laugh, or cry…
Another hour has passed, and the costumes have now come out. I walk around, deciding that since I’m here anyway, I should soak up the ambiance of a second night of Carnivale. I watch two costumed girls engaged in a confetti fight as their parents look on, smiling and snapping photos. I make my way back to a pay phone to try again, and get pelted in the face by a little girl throwing confetti. A piece catches an edge in my eye. Great. Now I am lost, -and- blind.
It is now completely dark. One more attempt to leave the square fails, and I suddenly remember that the vaporetto will take me directly back to San Angelo. I make my way to the dock at San Marco, and hop on board a boat that has just arrived, and realize that I am now seeing the rest of the Grand Canal. How Cool Is This! I stand on the bow for a better view. A gondola takes off, loaded with passengers, its hull completely studded with white twinkle lights. The cathedral dome on the other side of the Grand Canal is illuminated and beautiful. I realize this is the only way I would have found the Accadamia, had I planned on going there. I watch a couple get the famous 30 euro per person fine for failing to buy a vaporetto ticket.
I get off, and try a couple of times to locate the Avvocati, before going back to a hotel near the San Angelo stop. “It’s just across the bridge to your left” the concierge says. Bridge? I don’t even remember a bridge. I arrive home at 7 PM, three hours after I intended to. In retrospect, we realize that we should have made a back up plan. “If you are not here by xyz, we will meet you a designated place in San Marco Square at 7 PM,” says Payne. Yup, that would have been a good plan to have in place. They are impressed that I thought to take the vaporetto back home, and we all have a good laugh about my complete inability to navigate Venice on my own. Payne suggests sending a postcard to my boss, asking, “Have you heard from Heather, last seen in San Marco Square on Monday? Please advise…”
It is decided that I am not allowed out on my own for the rest of my stay here. Tomorrow morning, Marie and I will tour the Basilica, (the only other must-see thing on my list aside from the Doge’s Palace) and then additional shopping will probably ensue. I am still looking for writing papers and the elusive ring.
For photos from this second day in Venice, please visit my supplemental blog at Daveno Travels.
The Basilica of St. Marco
I’m awake at 5:30. It’s bread and jam for breakfast, and packing before we take off sightseeing. Then Marie and I set off to the Basilica. There’s a line, but it moves pretty quickly. We enter, and your eyes are amazingly drawn up to the vaulted, mosaic ceilings. Wow…
Marie reminds me to spend half of my time looking at the floor, where incredible mosaics and geometrics meet our every step. The floor is nearly as incredible as the ceiling. I reach down several times to touch the marble, the sardonyx, the lapis. The floor is much smoother than I expected, for it being made up of so many angular cuts of stone.
And then, we enter the Treasury — a depository of treasures brought back to Venice from Constantinople in 1204. An Egyptian vase, 4th century Roman glass, numerous Roman and Byzantine chalices carved from stone and gilded and jeweled, lamps and pails carved from clearest rock-crystal. The piece that made the greatest impression on me was a simple milk-glass plate from China, dating to the 13-14th centuries. I fantasize Marco Polo’s fingerprints being on the edges of it.
I did not choose well when I opted out of going upstairs, which I later realized was the San Marco Museum — the Doge’s banquet hall which now houses tapestries, illuminated manuscripts, and on the balcony, the four bronze horses that you can see from the Square. But by that time I had nearly burned my retinas with the details of this place, and was pretty overwhelmed. I light candles for Dad and Chuck, who both died last year, and then exit the building.
We stop for lunch. I order a mushroom pizza and café correto (coffee ‘corrected’ with liquor). I stumble with the language barrier again, and experience a bit of culture shock as I am trying to communicate with a Chinese barkeep, in Italian. She brings me two bottles — Jaegarmeister and Jack Daniels. Jack it is. When the coffee arrives, it is half alcohol. I don’t finish it, or the pizza. But I will never eat American pizza again.
We go shopping. The first find of the day, is also the best — a second hand store which looks promising for Payne as he searches for hardware for their house. There, in a glass case along the back wall, I find it. A ring with a gold lion head, a symbol of Venice. I ask the shopkeeper to unlock the case. I try it on, and it slips onto my finger as though it was made for me. My ring, found at last.
We see more Carnivale costume today, nearly always these people are in pairs, who stroll very slowly, with specific poses and sometimes even specific places to pose in the square. We see stacks of what look like really long benches, which Marie explains are set up as walkways during the aqua alta, the street flooding which, fortunately, we do not experience this trip. A French puppeteer, with his marionettes, his waist-high stage set up on the street, with backgrounds that he rolls in order to change the scenery, and a microphone and earpiece that he wears like body jewelry.
We visit the Cathedral of the Salute (Santa Maria della Salute) where I light a candle for Mischka, who also died last year. About half the outside of the dome is covered with scaffolding. It is also in sharp contrast to the Basilica, with its grey, unadorned interior, and its dome inset with glass panels, which fills the entire building with that beautiful Venetian light. It was built in 1630 by those thankful few who survived the Black Death that year. Outside the Salute, another very old church, appearing to date to the 10th-11th century, which I photograph in hopes of finding the name of it later. Another Carnivale costume, this one, a single Lioness…
We head back to the Rialto and cross to the other side. A ride in a gondola has been ousted from our plans due to the cost (100 euro), so we step onto a trajetto instead. This boat is not as ornate as a gondola, but is the same basic shape, and you stand in it instead of sitting. For the cost of a single euro each, we board the “poor man’s gondola” and snap photos of the Rialto from water level at the center of the Grand Canal. So much fun!
On the other side, past the Guggenheim Museum which is closed today, we see the Palazzo Contarinin deo Bovolo, (the Bovolo Tower), the famous spiral staircase built at the turn of the 16th century. I would never have found it on my own because it’s buried in a labyrinth of narrow alleyways. It’s also closed for restoration work, but we admire it nonetheless, as well as the cisterns and large marble tubs that are in the fenced off garden in front of it.
We walk back to the square and find the vendor where I bought my hat. He remembers us, although I suspect it was Payne that jogged his memory, rather than me. Then it is back to the apartment, to pick up my luggage, to go to the vaporetto, where I narrowly avoid getting on the one going in the wrong direction. Then, to the train station, where my trip to Florence begins.
For photos from this last day in Venice, please visit my supplemental blog at Daveno Travels.
The ger, or yurt as it is commonly called, is one of two forms of portable housing that have been used by Central Asian nomads for centuries, dating back to the Scythians. The ger remains today as the primary form of portable housing on the Himalayan Plateau and the Central Asian Steppes.
My study of gers reflects their usage by the nomads of Tibet, Mongolia and China during the time of Marco Polo. You may download this article below.
This article compares a selection of herbs which were used as medicinal teas in both Western Europe and Asia during the medieval period. I have included personal notes regarding color, smell and taste comparisons on those herbs which were available to me at the time that I wrote this article. It was first published in ‘A Watched Pot’ Spring 1985, a medieval culinary journal published quarterly in the Pacific NW. This article has been amended from its original.
CAUTION: THIS ARTICLE IS NOT INTENDED AS MEDICAL ADVICE. Please consult your doctor before trying these teas if you are pregnant or have significant health issues, or if you are taking medication that may react to any these herbs, singularly or in combination.
When I first started this paper, I had planned to write about the herbs and flowers growing in my own garden, including elder, carnation, parsley, rose and mint. When I came to mint and discovered how extensive the mint family was, I discarded all else and concentrated on members of this grouping only.
Recipes noted in this article are from pre-17th century sources. Most illustrations are 18th century botanical illustrations.
This article was first published in ‘A Watched Pot’ Spring 1985, a medieval culinary journal published quarterly in the Pacific NW. This article has been amended from its original.
“…many beauties take the air by the Ch’ang waterfront… their embroidered silk robes in the spring sun are gleaming… and hanging far down from their temples are blue leaves of delicate kingfisher feathers… …from “A Song of Fair Women” by by Tu Fu
Kingfisher feather ornaments adorned the ladies of the Chinese court since the T’ang Dynasty. These brilliant blue feathers came from water kingfishers and wood kingfishers, which were common in China until demand for their feathers nearly caused their extinction.
Kingfisher feather was cut to shape and inlaid into a silver or gold filigree base. Filigree was also combined with granulation to form hairpins in the shape of butterflies and flowers, which were often augmented with jade or pearls. These ornaments continued to be fashionable in China through the Victorian era.
Filigree is an ancient form of wirework which is found in both open backed and solid backed forms. Proper filigree is accomplished with an outer wire that supports finer inner wires that are soldered or riveted in place. Since I’m not a metalsmith, I attempted to make a piece of open backed filigree as the base of this ornament. I used a continuous length of heavy copper wire which I bent into a bracket of leaves, then wove the center stem back through the individual leaves, and twisted it at the end to form the pin. I then hammered the entire piece flat with a ball peen hammer. There are no solders, rivets, or other connectors used in this piece.
After I finished the frame, I learned that this technique probably more closely resembles wrapped wire or interlacing techniques that were practiced about 5,000 years ago. This form of wirework was used in Europe as early as the 8th century, and in later centuries in Central Asia. I was unable to document this technique to T’ang Dynasty China, I surmise that absence may have been due to the simplicity of the process. The silver piece5 shown above illustrates how wire-wrapping is used to hold looped wire together, which is a very similar process to what I used.
In lieu of kingfisher feather, I used the moulted feathers from my parakeet. Feathers from a macaw or a blue jay would work very well as they are closer in color and consistency to kingfisher. I prepared a base for the feather by gluing two layers of mulberry paper together, which I then sandwiched in a square of origami foil. Using clear glue, I glued feathers onto the foil, one on top of the other, using about ten feathers for each leaf of my bracket.
The feathers should have been layered in the same way that they lay on an actual bird, rather than one directly on top of the other. I would have achieved a more traditional texture had I used wing and tail feathers instead of the very fine and small body feathers, as well a thinner or diluted layer of glue. After the glue had set up, I pressed an insert into the back of each individual leaf in the wire form so that the grain of the feathers laid in the same direction as veining would on a real leaf. I then trimmed away the excess. My last step was to coat the top of the feather inserts with glue, and push them into the wire frame from the back, so they were slightly convex.
Since the feather inserts were backed with foil, there was no further finishing work needed, and both sides of the ornament are equally presentable. The example shown at left shows the back of a 19th century kingfisher feather hairpin. Interestingly, I did not find this photo until after I had completed my own hairpin. I coated the surface with glue to make the piece more durable. Real kingfisher feather pieces are not surface coated, and are very fragile as a result.
The hair ornament that I created is very sturdy, light weight and amazingly well balanced. It took about 3 feet of wire, 70 feathers, a pair of pliers, hammer, scissors and some clear glue. Yet again art imitates life, and it was only after I had worn my hairpin for the first time, that I came across the poetic description by Tu Fu that opens this article…
Most kingfisher feather jewelry is a much deeper shade of blue, set into a much finer filigree frame, and with more of the surface integrity of the feather exposed. I am however, quite pleased with my more rustic piece, which will serve me as a wearable keepsake from my departed and always treasured “palace kingfisher.”
With my apologies to my readers for the poor quality of these photos, from this article I wrote in 1986. This article was originally footnoted but that formatting did not remain intact during data transfer. Sources are below.
Touted as the first covered market in the world, it is as large and noisy as you would expect a 5,000 store shopping mall to be. It was also far more colorful and brightly lit than I was ready for, and I reached nearly complete sensory overload in the first ten minutes. Rick Steves says to spend about 2 hours here, which is about as much time as a human has before their retinas start to melt…
In addition to the shops that line some 60 walkways, this complex also houses two mosques, four fountains and a couple of bathhouses as well as several restaurants. Upon entering one of 27 doors, the first thing I see is a window filled with tiaras. Later on, a stall of embroidered boots, and beyond that, several shops filled with beautiful glass lanterns. A coat from the Topkapi, replicated in blue and white porcelain tile also catches my eye.
I give my first TL10 to an artist who writes my name Arabic style calligraphy. I later learn it is a style called hüsnü hat – writing in Türkish with Arabic alphabet and most often used for religious texts.
I see an unadorned set of 6 tulip glasses and saucers for tea. I begin to barter with the vendor but am met with resistance so I don’t pursue it beyond the TL5 discount he has offered. He tells me how bad business has been the entire time he is wrapping my purchase. I feel badly for initiating the barter and I start to question what I have read about shopping practices in Turkey.
The next shop is attended by a bouncy teenager with good English skills. I sort through a pile of wooden fabric stamps, select three for my hatmaking, and make no attempt to haggle the price. He drops it by a few dollars between bagging the pieces and collecting my money. I shop for a silver ring, but the jewelry is very gaudy so I move on.
After passing the same teenager three times, which elicits flirts from him and subsequent smiles from me, I turn the corner and into the Old Market. Here the ceiling domes are exposed brick, and most of the shops are faced with glass cases. An antique store has a case containing an astrolabe and some swords, which I did not enquire as to price.
Here, behind glass are three pair of chased silver chopines that were worn in Turkish baths. Another tiny shop is filled with stacks of Persian miniatures. The shopkeeper allows me to handle them. I cannot tell if they are true antiques or reproductions and the shopkeeper cannot read the Arabic that covers the backs of them.?He offers tea but I decline.
Ali Güzeldemirel’s old copper and brass is the most pleasant find of the day. He offers tea and a seat in his very small shop which I accept. He spends the next hour showing me various wares, telling me what the regular price is, and what ‘my’ price is, which eliminates the need to haggle. His prices are very fair and I end up buying several gifts for friends and a brass kohl bottle for myself.
I watch the bustle of the tea (cay) merchants, who weren’t serving customers, but instead ran from shop to shop, delivering tea in small “tulip glasses” on saucers, which they carry on suspended silver trays. Providing tea to patrons must be a cost of doing business here and I make a mental note to only accept tea from merchants I intend to do business with.
I exit the main bazaar and locate the Spice Bazaar which dates back to the mid 17th century. Olive oil soap, piles of saffron, Turkish Viagra, most things I don’t recognize, wishing my sense of smell was better. I try to buy just a few pieces of Turkish Delight but end up with a box which is discounted by 30% without my even asking.
The Spice Bazaar is about the size of a single arm of the Great Bazaar, so I backtrack the way I came in, passing a finch in a shrink-wrapped cage, hanging in a doorway of a shop. What a clever idea. The bird stays out of drafts but can still see out, and passersby can see him and hear his happy little voice. I pass a baklava shop that has been here since 1871, and exit out into the street.
I was more or less prepared to be lost for awhile this morning. I wasn’t prepared to be lost for the entire day. I wander up and down several streets filled with wedding dress and lingerie shops, and other shops with windows displaying wedding or pageant wear for children, which I later learn are for rites of circumcision. I end up in a plaza, and look up to get my bearings. I thought I could use the Ayasofya as a landmark, but one set of domes and minarets looks the same as another and now I am looking at three sets. I find the Hotel Han almost by accident an hour later. It’s been a really long and sensory-draining day.
For more photos of the Grand Bazaar and surrounds, please visit Daveno Travels.
Istanbul, in the early Christian era known as Constantinople, was the center of the medieval world dating back to 330 AD and crossroads for East-West trade for centuries. For 1500 years it was the capitol city, first of Byzantium and then of the Ottoman Empire, when Sultan Mehmet conquered the city in 1453. For the next 450 years, Istanbul would reign as the jewel of the East and would see a golden era ushered in under Sultan Suleyman the Magnificent and his chief architect Mimar Sinan.
Religious tolerance would allow mosques, churches and synagogues to stand side by side.
Istanbul is now the largest and most developed city in Turkey, hosting a population of somewhere around twenty million. It is, I believe, the only city in the world that straddles two continents – Europe and Asia.
I’m in Istanbul for less than 2 hours when I am sucked into the carpet shop across the street from the hotel. I had read about the process of rug buying and was planning to buy a small kilim. Their rep on the street says this is a good place to start, they can show me how carpets are woven and how to buy a good carpet. So we enter the shop. I am handed tea at the door and am escorted upstairs to the showroom. I look around and brace myself for the process that is about to begin. Little did I realize how ill-equipped I was…
I ask for a specific rug style from a specific region, in a specific size. “I just want to show you larger carpets” says Mustafa, the owner, “so you can be better educated.” More tea arrives. I hand Mustafa my business card and he tells me I should sell kilims in Seattle with my hats as no one else is doing that. I laugh it off and tell him I’m only in the market for one carpet this trip. The process begins.
One carpet after another, about thirty in various conditions, sizes, styles and colors. are laid out on the floor, one atop the other. I point to six that I am interested in and they are set aside. Mustafa has his assistant lay “his favorite rug” on a black velvet board. The thing is in shreds. Lunch is ordered despite my objections. We look at the Anatolian kilims I have selected, and Mustafa asks why I’m not interested in the one on the black velvet board. I tell him I am not willing to buy his favorite rug : )
I narrow my choices to three rugs, all of very similar ‘tree of life’ pattern, and ask him to tell me more about them as I gingerly bite into a kebab roll that has arrived on a silver platter. Of the three rugs, the one that has my greatest attention is a beautiful prayer rug, 90 years old, with five borders and a tree of life pattern, similar in color and style to the one shown here. The wools are dyed with saffron, cochineal and indigo. I am surprised to find that kilims (at least these) are woven almost like lace rather than being knotted. It’s time to start negotiating the price…
I must admit that my taste in Anatolian kilims is exquisite. The cost on this one is US$48,000…
I put my sandwich down, which Mustafa correctly interprets as an end to this conversation. He asks if I am interested in one of the other two carpets. “I’ve been in the city for less than two hours and need to think it over.” He tries to convince me to purchase but becomes frustrated when those attempts fail. After several painful minutes I stand up. We shake hands, and I exit the building, chagrined from the experience.
I shake the bruises from my ego, find a cash machine, and head towards the Grand Bazaar.
Photos of this day are available for your viewing pleasure at Daveno Travels.
After putting my business aside for much of last year to attend to family matters, I returned to find my website of about 6 years in need of updates. But the more I worked with it, the more broken pieces I found, until finally tiring of wrestling with things that would never cooperate, I decided to move it.
The process will take me several weeks, as my website houses my library of research papers and travel journals in addition to my online store.
So, please bear with me as I transition from “broken there” to “bright and shiny and new here”.
A day or two later in May 2011
I landed at Ataturk at 11 PM and got through visa processing fairly quickly. My luggage even showed up although I honestly didn’t expect it to. The luggage carousel was convenient to the Lost and Found desk, where I turned in a Diners Club credit card that I found on the floor near the visa desks. I took minor comfort in the fact that someone’s day was worse than mine…
The hotel had sent a driver, who met me shortly after I retrieved my luggage. He ushered me into a van with six seats, facing each other in pairs. The radio is the first cultural exclamation point. Even in Germany the muzak was American rock. That would definitely not be the soundtrack here.
We drove along what I would later learn is Yedikule Zindanlar, an extensive fortification running along the Sea of Marmara. After about 45 minutes we enter the Sultanahmet, Istanbul’s Old Town. Imagine Venice, but with cars. I think I’m going to be even more lost here than I was during my last few days in Florence.
The Hotel Han is even more vibrant than the website indicated, with its hot pink neon sign and facade. This restored Ottoman home stands on top of the Basilica Cistern in the heart of the Sultanahmet, within walking distance of many of the sites I wanted to see.
I check in with the hotelier, an older gentleman who explains that breakfast is served between 8-11AM. It’s going to take awhile for my ears to adjust to his broken English and thick accent.
My room is two floors up a tight spiral staircase, and although I try to carry my own bag, the old hotelier won’t hear of it. I apologize all the way up the stairs because my suitcase is full of books. He unlocks the door and ushers me in.
When the website lists this as a single room, they aren’t kidding! There’s a cozy bed tucked into an alcove, an ultra efficient private bath, and a mini fridge. The ceiling is lacquered tongue-and-groove, the walls stenciled with floral patterns that remind me of henna tattoos. The window is covered with beautiful embroidered curtains, edged with a sequined lace that would shimmer the next morning when the sun hit them. I can see a minaret from the lower corner of my window. There is no safe or TV, but there are more electrical outlets in this room than there were on the entire floor of the San Frediano Mansion in Florence. Full toiletries in the bathroom are a pleasant surprise.
“It Is Perfect!” — a phrase I would hear frequently this week.
I want to take a shower but it’s after 1 AM and I don’t want to wake the other guests. I fall into bed with expectations of being awakened in the morning by calls to prayer…
For additional photos of the day, please click here to go to Daveno Travels.
A Wednesday in May, 2011
Today begins the second leg of my Crossroads Tour, as I depart Florence for the long awaited and much anticipated city of Istanbul.
I awake to a calm, quiet morning. I grab a final cup of caffe ginseng from the Bianchi machine in the hotel hallway, and call a taxi that is waiting for me by the time I get downstairs. I’ve gone from hotel shower to airport gate in 30 minutes, like clockwork perfected. It’s going to be a great day.
About 15 minutes before we are to board, the flight is cancelled due to technical difficulties. The American next to me sums it up best. “Stuff happens” although he says it in a slightly coarser term.
I am among the first to retrieve my luggage but the very last one in line to rebook my ticket. An hour into what would be a two hour wait, an East Indian woman next to me strikes up a conversation. She’s leaving Florence after a 3 month stint, a consulting assignment for GE Oil. We compare notes about Florence, the difficulties we both had with Italian food (not enough spice), and our wish lists of other places to visit (Rome and Sicily for her, Cordoba and Morocco for me). I finally get up to the ticket counter and procure a ticket for the only flight departing for Istanbul that day, connecting in Munich. It boards in ten minutes…
I sprint to security to find a line. NO!!! Shoes off, watch off, netbook out of briefcase, I am slamming things into bins as fast as I can. I pass through the x-ray without setting it off this time, pull everything out of the bins and run in my stocking feet to the gate. As I reached a flight of stairs I gave thanks that I checked my suitcase, else wise I would have missed this flight entirely.
The airports here don’t have concourses from the gate to the plane, you are transported by a large bus, sort of like the tram cars in the subway loops at SeaTac Airport. Onboard the plane, I have a minor episode with my briefcase in the overhead bin, which expels my netbook, narrowly missing the gentleman seated below, before crashing to the floor and bouncing apart from its battery. I collect everything and return to my seat as the food cart comes down the aisle. The meal service is a half sandwich of cheese on rye. Or perhaps it’s butter. Or maybe brie. Served with the usual 4 oz. of water. I am dying for more fluids, and perhaps some actual food.
After an otherwise uneventful trip, we land in Munich. I have a 6 hour layover which will put me into Istanbul at 11 PM. I am completely frustrated that a city that is 4 hours away on a normal flight, is taking me 14 hours to get to. I look for a WIFI connection so I can contact my hotel in Istanbul. Not having success with that, I find a phone. My phone card doesn’t work and neither does my non-chip credit card. A second phone card, with 60 seconds of airtime, gets me through, but the person working the desk at the Han Hotel asked me to repeat every sentence, which takes longer than I had airtime for. I call back on my debit card and leave my name and tentative arrival time on their voicemail, and hope for the best.
The Munich airport is on a straight concourse that looks every bit like the SouthCenter Mall in Seattle — white, stark, and full of shops. I check the reader board again and find that my flight has been delayed by another hour and now departs at 7:30.
I find a coin operated internet point and try to email my updated ETA to the Hotel Han. It’s the first European keyboard I’ve seen, and I use up a euro trying to figure out how to type the “@” symbol. I pop in another coin and call over a couple of teenagers who can’t figure it out either. But they mention it’s some sequence of three keys, and after watching them for a couple of minutes, I figure out the sequence and sign in to my hotmail account.
I’m hot and headachy, exhausted and frustrated. My Italian is non-existent, my German is failing and my English isn’t far behind. About halfway through this layover I wish I had rented one of the napcabs — a private pod offering internet access and a place to sleep. Hindsight being the clear vision that it is, I console myself with the optimistic thought that tomorrow will be a better day…
For a few more photos of this trying day, please visit Daveno Travels.