Look hard. Sumela monastery is right in the center of the photo. Yes, that tiny beige spot on the side of the mountain, just visible when the clouds lift.
I OFTEN COMPLAIN about too much travel. 250 days a year on the road, more or less, for 23 years non-stop. At the same time though, I appreciate my great fortune to see the world. As our work bounces us around the globe, I’ve been able to visit the most wondrous and remote sites. Petra in Jordan is one of those. Luxor in Egypt, Nan Madol in Pohnpei, Ngorongoro Crater in Tanzania, and Kilauea on Hawaii are others.
While in Trabzon in the northeast of Turkey recently, I had a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to visit Sumela Monastery, about 30 miles on up the Silk Road. The orthodox monastery is ancient, miraculously built and carved into a barely-accessible mountainside, and covered with frescoes. The journey to reach it was arduous, as it is to most of the truly awesome sites I’ve experienced. Long, challenging travel is a prerequisite for rarely-seen beautiful or historic spots. It is why they’re rarely seen and still (relatively) unruined.
The trail through the forest is steep and slippery with extraordinary views.Ankle-twisting tree roots and enormous boulders help prevent sliding on the steep path.Getting closer, the cliff-hanging monastery appears grand and isolated.First glimpse upon entering the monastery.Brilliant frescoes badly damaged.Ceiling of a fully painted cave.A woman admires the painted cave.Structure surfaces are covered in brilliant frescoes inside and out.This interior space was very dark despite the light flooding into these small windows.A visitor takes a selfie.One of several salmon farms along the lower mountain road.After the monastery, Turkish pide, a hot, luscious bread and cheese dish, usually including meat.And of course a cup of strong Turkish tea.A word about security: at this restaurant in Trabzon, people hung their purses and backpacks outside the door, unguarded.
We took a bus most of the way, up the mountain, along rushing streams and waterfalls, past mosques and cement-pond salmon farms. When the road became too steep for the bus we stopped near a large rustic restaurant set back in the forest.
There we transferred to a small van able to carry eight people. The driver scrutinized his passengers and pointed to three, gesturing that they must get out because the vehicle was too heavy. Slowly then, the van wound up the steep and narrow road, we remaining passengers eyeing one another nervously as the engine strained. Pulling our sweaters and scarves over our shoulders, we climbed up through the darkening cloud forest until this vehicle too, couldn’t go any higher. There it stopped and we were expelled on the side of the road.
Sumela Monastery
It was a good photo op. The monastery appeared distant and unreachably remote, clinging to the steep side of a dark, forested mountain, deep, misty valley straight below. A strenuous hike followed, up crude stone stairs, clambering over giant tree roots and slippery dirt trails deeper into the cloud forest, where it rains 280 days per year. We were lucky! No rain. The path was tricky and difficult, and would be a muddy mess in rain.
It was not unlike the Cinque Terre trails, actually, minus the sea views.
It had been 86 degrees in Trabzon, below; now it was 65 degrees at the monastery, at an altitude of almost 4,000 feet. The structures, first begun in 386 AD, include natural caves in the side of the mountain, niches hacked into the cliff walls, and additional stone buildings erected in the following centuries. There’s a rock church, a small chapel, kitchens, a library, various living spaces, a courtyard, and lookout points. Nearly all surfaces are covered by brilliant 18th-century frescoes. The monastery has been repeatedly destroyed, restored, enlarged, ruined, abandoned, and defaced.
I loved bending low through four-foot high archways and entering the cool painted caves where it was both dark and blinding from the harsh natural light that pierced tiny windows. It was heartbreaking to see the frescoes so badly damaged; it was wonderful to see how much remained of the frescoes. The remoteness of the site limits visitors (and despoilers), but there is almost no control or security. Even now, visitors may wander where they will.
I’m lucky to have visited when I did. Lucky to have visited at all! It was one of those experiences that truly defines the word amazing, and leaves me feeling so fortunate to see the remote corners of the world.
Hopefully, by the time Sumela Monastery reopens, Turkey will be peaceful and travel warnings will be lifted.
You find the strangest things in airport lounges. Fancy banana liqueur?
Banana liqueur in a Turkish airport lounge. Is this a joke?
This was in the Turkish Air lounge in Izmir. Let me tell you: the Turkish Air lounge in Istanbul is fantastic! I love the cuisine of Turkey, and the lounge has a luscious sampling. In Istanbul, I want a long layover.
Of course I had to try the banana liqueur. Yep—very sweet. Probably mixes up well though, if you know what you’re doing.
Bob and I were enjoying a delicious dinner in a small Turkish resort town. It was a balmy, late-summer evening and the restaurant was in a narrow alley; our table was outside, on the edge of light pedestrian traffic.
We had a beer and some raki along with this gorgeous mezze plate and warm bread fresh from the oven. I was hoping to save room for the oddly chewy Turkish ice cream, but that didn’t happen. We lingered, letting the meal stretch and be the night’s main event.
I noticed a large bottle fastened to the wall across the alley. It appeared to be a plastic water bottle. Why was it perched there so prominently? To hold flowers? rolled-up messages? a broom? It seemed to be partially full of something…
Eventually, I had to get up and go look. Bottle caps! It was about a quarter filled with blue plastic bottle caps. Why? I asked our waiter, who explained that when the bottle is full of caps, it could be traded in for a wheelchair. Huh.
The mysterious door opposite our restaurant, and the water bottle that got our attention. Bottle caps equal a free wheelchair?
But, really? This seemed more like a hoax to me. Whatever…
As we considered the bottle on the wall across the alley, our focus shifted to the door at which it was mounted. It was an elegant entry surrounded by rich woodwork—at odds with the glass-fronted commercial establishments up and down the lane. It was warmly lit, while the surrounding shops flickered cool florescence. Could the doors lead to an upstairs guest house or hostel? We looked at the upper windows but could ascertain nothing. The glass doors were blacked out from the inside, reflecting alley activity, emanating mystery and privacy. This lent it a bit of foreboding, but that feeling was tempered and conflicted by the welcoming light. Come hither… stand back! Could it be an apartment house? The iron gate folded to the side implied a need for security.
After a while, it occurred to us that there was regular traffic into and out of the door. We hadn’t noticed at first, but once we began to pay attention, we saw that a couple or group would enter, then leave ten or fifteen minutes later. The visitors looked like tourists, not locals.
Again, we asked our friendly waiter. They sell copies inside, he said, knockoffs. But you have to know someone to get in. It’s the shop at the end of the lane. If you ask the right questions, you’ll be taken behind the wooden doors for the good stuff. He looked left and right, leaned in and whispered. No—just kidding.
Turkish counterfeits
Counterfeit goods for sale behind the secret door.
When we finished our dinner we strolled to the shop at the end of the lane and asked what we thought might be the right questions. A boy brought us to the wooden door and gave a secret knock—the code! (Slight exaggeration here.) The door opened to a bright and immaculate shop. Its walls were lined with shelves of colorful leather bags, satchels, purses, and duffels. Its spotless marble floor reflected more of the same. Racks held belts, and a small section displayed red-soled Christian Louboutin shoes. The goods were branded Prada, Hermes, Gucci, Chanel… all the big expensive names.
Turkish bread to go with mezze.
The quality seemed excellent. The prices were high—in the hundreds of dollars, but not the thousands. This lower-cost merchandise was likely made in the very same Italian factories as the legitimate designer items, from the same bolts of designer leather, cut and sewn by the same expert craftsmen. Read how counterfeit items are made in Italy and why they are for sale. Could these items have been made in Turkey, which has a thriving leather industry of its own? I doubt it. Could they be imitations from China? Not likely. I’ve been to the Beijing copy district, where shop after shop displays branded goods with impunity. Those items, while good, are churned out factory-like, without attention to precious detail as is the custom of Italian artisans. Or… perhaps in Beijing I didn’t know the right questions to ask.
Turkey Vultures—We’re off duty in Istanbul, so we roam around the Grand Bazaar, buy a shawl, buy a cd, seize photo opportunities. We go out the back of the covered market and I can’t resist buying an ice cream cone and the show that goes with it. I’m delighted, even knowing each move before it happens. The ice cream cart has a row of deep bins, each holding a different flavor of the weird Turkish ice cream.*
In Istanbul, a sidewalk vendor works his pink ice cream.
To drum up business, the ice cream man bangs his three-foot-long spatula on the bins in a catchy rhythm. then he stabs the pink ice cream and raises it high out of its bin in a solid blob and lets it slowly stretch like pizza dough or silly putty. Turkish ice cream has a consistency completely unlike what we’re used to.
Layered with every flavor of chewy ice cream.
I ask for a small cone and the ice cream man goes into high-speed. He scrapes a bit of ice cream from each bin and creates a rainbow stack on the cone, layer by distinct layer. He hands the creation to me and I take the cone—and suddenly it’s just an empty cone in my hand. The laughing ice cream man holds my purchase over his head and makes a face. He takes the empty from me and offers the one I’m drooling for but as I reach for it, he lets it swivel upside down and I grab air.
The vendor has fun with customers, but no worry: the ice cream is thick and won't melt.
One more time he offers the cone, and this time I’m left with just the paper wrapper in my hand. As I finally chew my ice cream (yes, it’s chewable stuff), I watch a Canadian woman argue about the price of a cone. After grudgingly paying, she swears the man short-changed her.
Istanbul pickpockets
I cut Bob out of the photo, as it was the two thieves behind him I really wanted.
It’s 6 p.m. Just beyond the ice cream trolley is a major bus stop. Buses pull in and line up in three ever-changing lanes. Bob and I instantly notice a “suspect.” He’s wearing a navy pinstripe suit with a smear of caked mud(?) on the back of the left thigh, and he carries an odd shaped package loosely wrapped in a plastic bag—his tool.
"Pinstripe" works while "Teach," in the background, looks into our camera.
Soon enough we identify his buddies. I pretend to take a picture of of Bob while shooting two of the gang behind him. They’re not suspicious of us, and one (in the striped shirt) even steps up beside Bob and smiles at me, as if he wants to be in a picture. (I’ll call him Ham, but I should call him smug.) My damn camera is set on too high a resolution—I can’t snap a second shot because the first is still recording.
Now they perform for us, proving our fine-honed sense of thief detection. But we’re not ready with equipment! In fact, since we hadn’t planned to be on the prowl today, we don’t even have proper equipment. So Bob uses his new tiny camera in video mode, then promptly deletes the half-minute of footage by accident. I take a still shot, but a woman steps in front of the action and blocks the money-shot. We both get mediocre stills.
A pickpocket in Istanbul works passengers as they board the bus.
The pickpockets, of course, don’t get on the bus. Pinstripe hasn’t seen us, but another one has. He’s nice and clean-cut-looking, despite his three-day whiskers. He looks like a high-school history teacher. After blatantly photographing him, Bob approaches and offers his hand. We have no common language at all, but that doesn’t keep us from trying. We pull him aside and Bob lays some moves on him, borrowing his tool for cover. Teach breaks into a huge grin, but what does he think? That Bob is a pickpocket, or just that we caught him out, wink wink. He can’t know, and wants to get away, wants to get back to work. As if greeting a long lost confederate—or by way of desperate farewell—he kisses Bob roughly on both cheeks, then me, then Bob again, then me again. Bob is convinced it’s a sign of respect.
With no common language, Bob Arno's interrogation of this pickpocket in Istanbul did not go far.
Teach takes off, but Pinstripe doggedly continues, working the boarding passengers of one bus after another. All the thieves we observe here seem to work alone, even though they may be beside a colleague. During the 90 minutes we skulked about the bus stop, we observed about 20 suspects. Were there more?
The main drag in the "modern" part of Istanbul. Crowded day and night... but especially at night.
At 11 p.m. we wander up the hill to Istiklal Caddesi, the main drag in Beyoglu on the “modern side” of Istanbul. It’s still Europe, but on the other side of the Golden Horn. We talk about sitting down for a glass of wine or finding a sweet shop for some gooey Turkish desserts and tea. The street is jammed with pedestrians, and police cars are strategically parked at several intersections. I spot a suspicious character loitering around the atm, but Bob pooh-poohs my inkling. He pops into a deafening music shop to buy some new age Turkish funk while I, repelled by the volume, wait in the street and watch the people-parade.
The pickpocket we called "34," working in Istanbul at midnight.
By now it’s past midnight but despite being in r&r mode, my thiefometer kicks in. I can’t help staking out the lowlife who leans against the wall, clearly lurking, holding a sweater (tool) over his arm like half the other people on the street, but in that way.
Finally he lurches into the crowd and I see that (a), he’s got a limp, and (b), he’s onto a woman with a low purse. No surprise. I follow him until he gives up on the purse and leans against another wall. I dash into the cd store and pull Bob out. We easily locate the limper again, but soon lose him in the swirl of people. His shirt front identifies him as “34.” From the back he’s all gray, but his orange sleeve beckons like a beacon, and so does his bobbing head. Mostly though, this guy just leans and lies low. We watch him make a few more half-hearted attempts just to prove to ourselves that he is what we know he is, then Bob decides to enlist a translator.
A pickpocket in Istanbul, found working late at night.
He returns dragging a plainclothes security guard from the music shop.
Surprisingly, the limping pickpocket didn’t put up any resistance or hesitate to answer our questions. And although our translator required serious cajoling to enlist, he gets into the moment. “34” is a Kurd, not married, and has been picking pockets for 20 years. He claims to be the best operator on this street, and says it is his main territory. His leg was injured when he was a child. Bob notices how delicate his fingers are, how clean, how perfectly manicured the nails.
To demonstrate a move, Bob wants to borrow 34’s sweater to use as a cover. Like most criminal thieves, Bob simply can’t steal barehanded. At first, 34 was reluctant to release his sweater. But when Bob got into position behind the translator, 34 swiftly arranged himself in front of the translator and fell slightly back into him. Bob slipped out the translator’s wallet as if he and 34 had been partners for decades.
We ask how many others work this street, and 34 says there is a woman, and some children. This street is easy, he says. How often do you succeed in getting money, Bob asks. Every time, he lies. He repeatedly presses his hands to his nose, which is red and swollen. His cheeks are scraped and he might have the beginning of a black eye. Bob asks how he hurt his face. Three hours ago, he claims, he tried to break up a fight between some friends of his.
Yeah, right. We can think of a more likely scenario.
*Turkish ice cream is thick and chewy, totally different from “our” ice cream, but delicious. It’s thickened with salep, the dried powder of a wild orchid now endangered.
