Obama çok güzel

My time in Istanbul was drawing to a close; my plane would leave on Wednesday, November 7. Unable to control myself in the bazaar, I had bought more than would fit in the small carryon I had brought with me. I confessed to Sue that my inner thrifty environmentalist was feeling like the rest of me had sold out, but I was having a blast, enjoying the beautifully designed and crafted items for sale.

“That's OK,” she reassured me. “You ate your vegetables: You visited all the cultural sites. If you want to shop some more, it's fine with me. You can buy a wheeled duffel near the market and carry your stuff back in that. We'll bring your suitcase when we move back to Minnesota in January.”

The Grand Bazaar was uncharacteristically quiet early on Tuesday morning.

That's all the convincing I needed. We set out again to buy a last few items at the main bazaar and the spice market. Umit, always polite, smiled a little when Sue told him to drop us off at the tram so we could shop again.

This time, I picked up some inlaid wood boxes from Syria in the main market, and a couple more oya-trimmed scarves at a little shop just outside. At $3 apiece, I figured they were the ultimate in cheap chic.

I realized that I had not yet purchased anything for Elliana, my three month old granddaughter. Finding the right thing for her was a challenge. Her other grandma had gone a little wild shopping and had presented Luca and Toni with four boxes of clothing. Elliana was a little young for toys, and a few items I saw at the sidewalk stalls had safety issues, containing sharp metal parts or wooden beads just the perfect size to lodge in a toddler's throat.

The street outside the spice bazaar where household goods and clothing were sold.

The area behind the bazaar had fewer tourists; it's clear that this is where locals shopped for clothing and other everyday needs.

The street where children's clothing is sold. I couldn't help but notice the guy dressed like Muammar Qaddafi, and we assumed he was a tourist.

Shoes for sale

Covered alleyway in the clothing area

Using her Turkish—again—Sue asked people on the street where we might find more baby items. Several people directed her to the fabric han. We walked through the door to discover an enclosed mall, five or six stories high, filled with baby clothing and supplies. There I found the one item of clothing that Elliana still needed—a hooded sweater—and a bib that said “Feed me!” in Turkish.

The multi-story baby mall

I now had only one item left on my list: some of that addictive, not-too-sweet Turkish delight flavored with nuts like the one Berna and Mete served at their restaurant. Back inside the spice bazaar, we spied the walnut variety and asked for a sample, but it was covered with coconut and was still too bland and sweet. We tried another vendor, Sue explaining that we were looking for some that contained nuts in a dark jelly matrix dusted with powdered sugar. The vendor cut us a little piece—that wasn't it, either—and then suggested one called “double pistachio.” Success! I bought half a kilo and he packaged it carefully for me.

All kinds of Turkish Delight

Before heading back toward Sue's neighborhood, we bought a wheeled duffle in a shop in the underground tram station. As we walked across the Galata Bridge, on the lower level this time, we were amused by the view of the fishing poles bristling from the deck above.

Fishing poles bristle from the upper deck of the Galata Bridge.

It was lunchtime, and once back in the Beyoglu neighborhood, Sue suggested that we have lunch at a restaurant labeled “Gurme.”

“What do you think that means?” she asked me as I studied the sign.

I was stumped and didn't have a good answer.

“It means 'gourmet'” she said, laughing, “The Turks don't waste any letters.”

We entered and stood before a glass case overflowing with a huge variety of meats, cheeses, and prepared vegetable dishes.

“It works like this,” Sue explained. “You tell them what you want here at the counter. They'll give you a number. Find a table and sit down; they'll fix a plate for you and bring it out. We pay when we're done eating.”

“It's a good thing it's not crowded yet,” she said, “So we'll have time to make some selections.”

I was glad to have her guidance. Everything looked good, but the seasonings weren't apparent and I couldn't tell if some mashed yellow stuff was squash, or maybe potatoes with turmeric. I saw something that looked like a pronto pup minus the stick—she explained that it was dough filled with spiced ground meat, very popular. Items at one end of the counter were hot dishes, and the rest were served cold or at room temperature.

Hot roasted meat with eggplant puree (a.k.a. Sultan's Delight) sounded too good to pass up, so I started with that. Sue ordered fried zucchini with yogurt garnish, chicken salad, pickled beets, and the Turkish pronto pup. We sat at a sidewalk table, and soon a young man showed up with a basket of bread and two heaping plates.

I dug into my eggplant and understood right away why it made the sultan swoon. The Turkish pronto pup and fried zucchini would have been great hot and crisp out of the oil but seemed a little sodden to me. The pickled beets surprised both of us—they were not just pickled, but quite spicy as well. I cooled off my mouth with a bit of the yogurt from the zucchini.

When we had finished our lunch, we walked a couple blocks and caught the tram to the spot where Umit was waiting with the car. He grinned as I walked up with my new rolling duffle.

“It's OK, Umit,” I said, “You have my permission to laugh out loud.”

He smiled as he loaded the bag into the trunk. Sue directed him north along the Bosphorus to a restaurant famous for their milky desserts, a Turkish specialty. It was my last day in Turkey, and I wanted to treat Sue and Umit to dessert.

Parking was tight, and when the valet asked for the keys, Umit looked uncomfortable. “I don't like for others to drive this car,” he said to Sue and me, “It's my baby.” He turned and spoke in Turkish to the valet, who relented and directed Umit to a spot.

Sue had told me about a sweet milky pudding that contained strings of chicken meat, called tavuk göğsü. It sounded pretty bizarre, but I had to try it.

Tavuk gögsü, sweet milky pudding with chicken strings

“Besides the chicken flavor,” she said, “the texture of the pudding is kind of rubbery, so it's an odd combination.”

Umit ordered a version of the chicken pudding that was browned on the top, a bit like crème brulee. To be on the safe side, I ordered baklava, and when our desserts came, Sue and I shared. Umit told me to try a bit of his, and I offered him a piece of baklava in return, but he declined.

“I don't like baklava so much,” he said. “This one, I really like.”

Sue was right, the texture of her pudding was rather elastic, and after the initial creamy sweetness the hint of chicken flavor at the end was a little disconcerting. While both were tasty, I actually preferred Umit's broiled version—it seemed a little less gelatinous.

Umit brought us back to the apartment, where I began sorting through my possessions and planning what to pack. Sue brought down the bathroom scale, and after trying a few combinations of clothing and souvenirs, I set put a few of the heavy glass items into my old suitcase for Sue to bring back to Minnesota later.

“How about fish for dinner?” Sue suggested. “I like to take all my guests out for fish before they leave.” Although it was evening for us, election day was just getting underway in the U.S. We anticipated a late night of watching the returns come in—or perhaps an early morning the next day. The polls showed Obama and Romney very evenly matched—the race was too close to call. Sue and I were on edge and getting out of the apartment would be good for us.

We grabbed our sweaters and walked down the steep hill to the waterfront road. Sue steered me into a little restaurant on a side road, where four or five dark-haired young men, nattily dressed in white shirts and black trousers, greeted customers. She greeted them in Turkish. She introduced me as her friend from Minnesota and we shook hands all around. One, apparently the maitre d', showed us to a table, chatting with Sue.

I heard the word “Obama” as they spoke and could tell she was talking to him about the election. She looked concerned, and turned to me.

“I told him we're pretty worried about the outcome,” she explained. “He's very popular here, and they really want him to win. I told him we both voted for him.”

“Obama, good!” a young waiter piped up, giving us the thumbs up.

“Obama çok güzel,” I replied, using the only Turkish I knew (“Obama very nice.”) The guys were delighted.

As soon as we sat down, a young man brought a basket of fresh corn bread to our table. Sue ordered stuffed mussels as an appetizer, which we shared. These were unlike any mussels I'd had before, the tender flesh mixed with seasoned rice and pine nuts and served on the shell. She gave me a forkful of her fish, and it was so mild and tasty that I almost regretted having ordered shrimp. I ordered a simple salad of arugula and tomatoes, and as I moved to season it with olive oil, one of the waiters swooped in and took over, inundating it with oil and then covering it with thick pomegranate molasses. It had a great sweet/sour flavor, although I usually apply my dressing more sparingly.

We savored our dinners. My shrimp had arrived in bubbling crock and it was some time before it was cool enough to take a bite. We skipped dessert since we had some outstanding macarons waiting for us back at the apartment. As we rose to leave, a couple of the waiters expressed their hope that our president—who has a good relationship with Turkish Prime Minister Erdogan—would be re-elected.

“Obama, good luck!” one of the guys said as we stepped out onto the sidewalk.

We walked back up the hill, breaking into a sweat in the damp air, and I resumed packing. It was too frustrating to watch TV. The polls in America were still open and there was little to report, so we went to bed early. I tend to worry and went to bed feeling pessimistic, but I tried to block out my thoughts and get a good night's sleep.

The next morning I awoke to the sounds of the television. Sue was nervous and excited about the race, and had awakened at 5:00 a.m. To check on the results. By 7:30 CNN was projecting a win for Obama. The two of us were happy but I was afraid to hope too much. By the time Umit came by at 9:00 to take me to the airport, Romney had conceded and Obama was delivering his victory speech. I felt like waving a little American flag when I went out on the streets—the Turks would be happy.

Umit drove us along the seaside road to the airport, past long stretches of Istanbul's ancient fortifying walls. I was sad to be leaving. I shook his hand warmly when he dropped me off, gave Sue a hug and thanks for her hospitality and the wonderful things she had shown me while I was there. Then I was on my own again, this time going from one non-English speaking country to another. As the plane lifted off, I looked down on the red tile roofs of beautiful Istanbul, caught sight of the domes and minarets of a mosque, and vowed to return.