Our destinations today were the Grand Bazaar and the Spice Market, as well as going to Suleyman I’s tomb again, but during opening hours this time. This was appropriate because covering and extending the streets of market that made up the Grand Bazaar was one of the improvements instituted by the Suleyman the Magnifcent himself. There are numerous other small bazaars and it would be reasonable to call most of the Sultenahmet area a street market, such is the atmosphere and the number of stalls. However, we were keen to see the official one.
True to form, Suleyman went for glorious as well as practical. High arches, with windows decoratively giving light float over wide thoroughfares, which are lined on each side with stalls. Restored, they have detailed painted patterns, which I presume are fairly true to the originals. There is order in this bazaar, with all the jewellers in one section, the leather sellers in another, manchester in a third and so on. Near the jewellery section there were about thirty men with mobile phones calling out bids in a curbside gold auction. Two streets on, the same scene was repeated. Shoppers lingered, umming and aahing before going to the ATM machine yet again. There were beautiful art works, ceramics, silks, clothes, bags, inlay items, gold and silver jewellery, towels, carpets, lace, chess sets – lots of lovely things that you would really want to buy. There were some tasteful and tastleless souvenirs but, on the whole, this was a bazaar with items of value in it. Keith volunteered to wait in the Post Office queue while I went off for a browse. We were not looking for anything in particular and everything I saw by chance was too expensive – an unframed miniature with gilt on it of an Ottoman procession for 100 lira, or (too heavy) a beautiful inlaid backgammon set. Really, to get the most out of a bazaar you have to buy something, so I can only report that ours was very much an incomplete experience.
We took a bit of a diversion to see the aqueduct which fed the cistern we had visited. It is certainly a tall structure, but now a major road runs under it, and its remains peter out fairly soon.
We re-traced our steps to Suleyman the Magnificent’s tomb. Inside, his grave is the largest and in the middle between the smaller ones of his relatives. The tomb is richly decorated in unusual tones of mustard and gold as well as blue. I think that history, as we have been inefficiently gleaning it as we travel along, shows lives to have been tragic and heroic, petty and selfless and sometimes inspired. Overwhelmingly circumstances and the side of the fence you are born on, even the playmates you happen to have and particularly the people you put all your trust in, seem to trump many. Suleyman I is one who had a vision bigger than his own glory and yet a very human life with weaknesses, and that helps me to connect to him in particular. That is how I would explain why it was important to me to spend just a little time thinking of him and being at his grave.
Roxelana’s tomb was also open, and although it has been said that she manipulated Suleyman into marrying her and then went on from intrigue to intrigue, we visited her too. Inside there was an interesting academic account of the historical references to Roxelana in English, so people were treating me with hushed deep respect, not realising that I was kneeling simply because it took so long to read the item. It referred to contemporary writers who agreed that Roxelana was not particularly beautiful but that she ‘captivated the Sultan’s affections.’ She had a ‘complete but not learned hand’ and the comment is made that grammar and spelling were obviously not essential in the harem school. Some of Roxelana’s letters mention news of the plague, treatments for her son’s hump, endowments to such things as bath houses, and how to have a bullet proof shirt. She is supposed to have given another woman a bottle of eau de cologne, which the other woman drank and became silly from. Such is the stuff of the tiny remaining fragments of letters. Roxelana is supposed to have forced Suleyman to marry her expressing her wish to make a pious endowment and her regret that she could not do it as a slave could not and as a simple concubine she would not be in a position to do it. She needed to be freed and in the correct capacity of wife of the Sultan. It is said that she withdrew her favours until Suleyman married her she could make her endowment. She actually did much good and there were bath houses, mosques, soup kitchens, hospitals and other community projects all over the place that she endowed. So all in all, I spared some time and thoughts for this slave girl, whose life may sound like a fairy tale but who would have had many moments of feeling like being on a roller coaster.
The spice market was a sweet little market in which more spices and dried herbs than I have ever heard of, many strange dried items, some kitchen equipment and tonnes of Turkish delight are displayed in most beautiful and enticing ways. Different aromas could be smelt in different spots. We must have looked like we were suffering from a deficiency in Iranian Saffron because we were offered it at every turn. It was a feast for the eyes. We bought some Turkish delight for gifts for the near future and Keith had it hermetically sealed, ‘against ants’ (but really against me).
We were looking for an upstairs mosque when a kind man guessed our problem and led us to some steps in the corner where several streets came together. We climbed above the hubbub of kebab sellers and tea houses to a paved terrace with pots of hydrangeas and strawberries along the edges. Many mosques combine shopping, bathing or other premises as part of their complexes and often the mosque is on the second level, but usually they are free standing and obvious. This one was virtually hidden and was probably built in over time. It was the Rustempasa Mosque, built in 1560, and was decorated throughout with great panels of Iznic tiles. Its predominantly red carpet picked out the reds in the blue floral tiles. It was simply lovely and also quiet.
This had also been a great day of walking the streets and just being there. Cats and people went through the bins, some looking for recyclables and others for sustenance. 
At lunchtime an elderly, traditionally dressed man had set up his stall of taking blood pressure and selling prayer beads, right next to us. 
Several people were tested, including two fit looking young men. Men rushed past with hand-pulled wheeled carriers pressing against their backs on down hill streets, zig-zagging and sliding on their shoes to act as breaks. 
Enormous Turkish flags stretched across the roads and every age and type was out and about, busily going to, or carting something to somewhere, or simply strolling or sitting around. Humanity is everywhere, and even the tourist influx makes little impact on the tide of real life.Our treat tea of pizza in a back street was partly cold, but it filled us up and we strolled home in time to hear the English version of the Blue Mosque Sound and Light Show. I had got it majorly wrong but, since we were so behind on the blog, I was able to remove the real bloopers from the page which gave my interpretation of the French night before it was published. Actually, my version was much more dramatic and interesting, so maybe I should have left it in.
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