Hi folks, Split-Croatia here--we landed in Dubrovnik this morning, through a violent storm at sea followed by clearing and the most spectacular coastline I have ever seen from a ship. As soon as the ship cleared customs I split on a local bus for Split, where I am King of the Cybercafe! I'll tour the sights and zip back to Dubrovnik tomorrow, but first I need to write you this love letter:

I love Istanbul. This is hardly news, but I can't think of a cleverer lead-in. Bob-the-music-prof and I seem to be the Istanbul experts on the faculty, supported by Eko, a spectacularly articulate Turkish student and savvy Istanbullu. It fell to us three to present the city and country in a series of presentations sponsored by all the ship’s fiefdoms--lectures on history, geography and current events, music demos, whatever. Poor brave Eko got to represent All Turkish Youth, and held his own ably in a series of high-profile, high-risk settings. The "cultural pre-port" lecture (i.e. the travelogue) was a Bob'n'Larry spectacular, with music, food, and slides. You know how I can gush? Well, I gushed. I repeated as a mantra: "Istanbul is the most beautiful city on earth." I figured if I said it often enough, they just might see it that way. It must have worked because folks told us they were psyched. As the ship got closer, Bob and I worked out an ever-more-elaborate series of shore activities, adding to our already lengthy list of duties in port.

When we entered the Dardanelles, the dean marched me up to the observation deck with a megaphone to talk people past Troy and the Gallipoli battlefield. Shouting into the fierce wind, I almost lost my voice then and there, and we were still hours away from port. The only downer: my heart breaking, I felt duty-bound to warn the ship's doctor about the mussels--my favorite food in Turkey is stuffed mussels, but they're a classic cause of Hepatitis A. He duly forbad the ship to eat mussels in Turkey, the only prohibition.

As we pulled into the harbor--right into the center of the city during morning ferry rush hour--the decks were packed, but the skies were drizzly. I was worried. I'd let myself be talked into leading four walking tours in five days, and rain was not what was needed. No problem: the "Queen of Cities, garlanded about by waters" (Byzantine epithet) had already hooked them. OMIGOD was the general comment, as mosque after mosque rolled into view, until we had the whole panorama surrounding us in 360 degrees. I'd forgotten how much time I'd spent there in winter, but the drizzle, fog and seagulls felt just right for this most maritime of cities. I could already taste the hot soups and stuffed veggies, all the comfort food of my many rainy days there. And the mussels. I was obsessing about mussels.

Well, the walking tours went just fine, rain or not. As it happens, it is the most beautiful city in the world, and certainly among the most interesting, and everywhere I went, I had an entourage of a dozen or more eager acolyles. I felt like Sally Field: they liked it, they really liked my city! For y'all that know the city, here were my walking tours: a tour of the market slopes, from Beyazit to the Spice Market via hans and hidden mosques; Byzantine walking tour, from Hagia Sophia down by Sergius and Bacchus, Sokollu Mehmet Pasha Camii, to the Armenian patriarchate in Kumkapi; an exploration of the alleys of Beyoglu, that managed to bag the Ecumenical Patriarch himself presiding at a Greek church service; and an expedition to the Prince's Isles, culminating with my customary bottle of wine under my customary pine tree atop the hill at St. George's Monastery. Diplomats were in town, complicating things. Chelsea Clinton wandered by my Hagia Sophia tour. Other folks met Hillary, Bill, and Kofi Annan.

Damned if every day didn’t produce new surprises, all of them good. I've been coming here for twenty-two years--literally, over half my life--and every time I come back, I approach with trepidation: will I still like it, or was that just youthful romanticism? Having gone from three million to twelve million people in my own experience, won't it just go to hell altogether? Have I outgrown the place? What about my guests—will they see it through my eyes, or will they hate it this time? Much anxiety. But every time I return, it is better; tangibly and materially better. New this time: gleaming new tramways replacing the old dirty buses; parks and plantings were there were none before; new charming pedestrian zones everywhere, including all of Karakoy, where the Great White Mothership was docked, and best: the long-overdue gentrification of Beyoglu, the wonderful old 19th-century embassy and shopping district. New experience: seeing the Armenian monuments of the city through the eyes of an Armenian colleague. I’ve always avoided them in the past, partly from ignorance and partly from discomfort, but it was deeply satisfying to see them at last and to find them in pretty good shape, all things considered. I hope she found some comfort in them too, I’m not sure. It’s very odd for me to look at dear old Istanbul in the same way I looked at Cambodia just weeks earlier, as a haunted place of painful reminders and unfinished humanitarian business.

Funny thing in Hagia Sophia: my stomach didn't hurt. Hagia Sophia has occupied a large chunk of my life, my research there the foundation of my professional career. I realized that this was my first post-tenure visit, and—miracolo!—it no longer frightened me. I could actually relax and enjoy Hagia Sophia, just like normal people do, with no complications. Truth is, after 22 years of constant preoccupation with the place, “Istanbul” has become a city in my head, one that runs parallel to that other Istanbul out there. Its ups and downs I take personally, and for me all its monuments are inextricable from my personal memories. I love checking in every few years, partly because it also means checking in on myself—my own ups and downs, progress, failures, and my changes in perspective. I’ve come to rely on that trip up the hill to the monastery on Büyük Ada as a sort of measuring post every few years. It’s become a vantage point over my own life, as much as over the Sea of Marmara.

So what did I do in my off hours? Poked around, wide-eyed, stirred up old memories. Wrote a lot of email to my old Istanbul cronies. Went to the Cicek Pasaj every day, paid gypsy musicians to sit at my table and play and drink beer with me. Sometimes I took other people along, sometimes not. I wrestled with my conscience, but one day I could stand it no longer. I looked right, looked left, saw no Semester at Seapersons....and ordered a plate of stuffed mussels. Ah, blessed holy communion! Now all was right again. Immediately there came a call: "Hey Professor Butler! Come on up!" And there, two floors up, were two SAS'ers hanging out the window, watching me eat the forbidden dish. Oh well. Up I went, we had a great time, and I’m glad I ate the mussels, so there.

The final night in town, Bob pulled out all the stops: an Ottoman banquet at the Suleymaniye mosque, with his Mehter Band buddies moonlighting (under threat of court-martial, we later learned) and dancers, drummers, etc etc etc. He, Bruce and I had been grooming our beards for weeks, and hosted the event in costumes rented for the occasion: the three of us grave turbanned, robed, with little yellow curly shoes. The reaction was gratifying. By all reports, Istanbul has been a favorite port of the trip, and this just topped it for me.

Bob--bless him--as a final flourish managed to talk the Janissary Band into playing on the wharf as the ship sailed off, after the banquet. In all my visits, leaving Istanbul has been hard, but I've never left by ship before. It was a magnificent way to go. At night all the monuments are floodlit; it is an almost hallucinatory beauty, all minarets, domes, and wheeling flocks of gulls. As the ship swung out and around, the Janissaries playing, the peninsula receding slowly in the distance and then disappearing into the night, I thought of my favorite lines from Cavafy, the great poet of Greek Alexandria; from "The God Abandons Antony”:

“Like a man long-prepared, like a brave man, like the man who was worthy of such a city,
Go to the window firmly, and listen with emotion, not with the complaints of a coward,
Ah! Supreme rapture! Listen to the notes, to the exquisite instruments of the mystic choir,
And bid farewell to her, to the Alexandria which you are losing.”

A little baroque, maybe, but I listened fervently, and shed a little tear for the Istanbul slipping away.

The aftermath: Well, by the end of the port call I still had a voice--barely--and Bob was still walking—barely. We both crashed and burned; I spent the two day trip to Dubrovnik horizontal, exhausted, voiceless, but exhilarated. People asked me if I wasn't sad, leaving. But no, I wasn't. I’d eaten the mussel, and reestablished communion with my holy place. The city was fabulous--it looked terrific, and I don't think I've ever had a better time there, or been so successful sharing it with others. Besides, I know that I'll be back--sooner, not so long an absence as last time--and that when I do, it will be even better. It always is. And that's the end of my love story, for now, at 22 years the longest love of my life. For those of you who have been there with me, I hope this brings back memories. For those of you who haven't yet--well, let's keep the date open! I love sharing Istanbul--the city in Turkey and the one in my head as well.

Romantically----------------------------------------loti.

The Janissary Band playing on Karakoy Wharf as our ship departed Istanbul, 11/21/99 Photo: Dennis Galletta