The View from Above the World: Mardin

When I first set eyes upon the city of Mardin, some thirty years ago, I thought I had entered a place of enchantment, peace and tranquility, mystery, and dreams, perched on the side of a mountain, on the edge of the world.  As you first catch a glimpse of the city from afar, you think it is deserted, but upon entering it's hub, you are captivated, and the sites around you engulf and mesmerize, and you know you have found a place that will forever remain with you, visually and, somewhat, spiritually.

The entire city is an open-air museum, and exploring the narrow streets and alleys transports you back centuries through civilizations of Sumerians, Babylonians, Assyrians, Persians, through Byzantines and Ottomans, and then up to the present day.  What else would you expect from a place situated between the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers? It is a city capped by a castle, built upon down through the centuries - a city where many civilizations meet, and leave the most precious of their artifacts, traditions, and stories behind.

Scattered throughout the city and plain, ancient mosques and monasteries sit side by side.  The Deryrulzafaran monastery was the World Syriac Patriarchate between 1116 and 1932, and there are madrasas dating back to the 12th century.  Dialog and respect between religions has been handed down here for centuries, contributing to the calm and surreal atmosphere of this city.

The bedestens and bazaars, famous for their soaps and filigree, are pure joy, with sights, sounds, and aromas that pull you in and invite you to linger and savor every moment.  And, have I mentioned the famous Mardin coffee?  On a recent visit I enjoyed a break on the terrace of a monastery café, savoring every moment, surrounded by the beauty of the hills, architectural treasures, and pure peace and tranquility.

Mardin is located off the beaten path, but this only contributes to it's charm, ambience, and mystique.  And I treasure every visit, and dream of the next, and of sharing this amazing place with friends and family and fellow travelers searching for an historical and cultural experience.

Two Dogs and a Cat: Natural Resources of Turkey?

Early Spring 1986 my mother chose to visit us in Turkey.  Well, no one should visit this fabulous country and miss out on a trip to Cappadocia (though many do!).  Knowing the weather would be forbidding this time of year, we decided to brave the elements and go anyway.  We checked into a wonderful cave hotel in Urgup, in the snow, and settled in with my mother in one room with our twin 5 year old daughters, and my husband and I in another. 

Snow is always beautiful, but when you combine it with the spectacular landscape of Cappadocia, it's absolutely mesmorizing and thrilling!  My children do what all children want to do in the snow, venture outside and play.  And this was our introduction to, the Anatolian Shepherd, or, as it is called by the Turks, the Kangal dog.  First of all, they are huge!  As soon as our daughters stepped outside their room, they were greeted by a mother and her two pups.  This was, what, 28 years ago?  Yet I remember as though it just happened.  The mother walked over to one of my daughters and licked her on the face.  I remember the dogs tongue, which practically covered my child's entire face.  And thus began a long history of, and love for, this amazing breed of dog.

Fast forward 20 years.  My daughter, the one who had her face licked, is now married to a man who insisted on a German Shepherd as a pet.  True to her roots of having grown up in Turkey, my daughter insisted on an Anatolian Shepherd.  A what?  An internet search began for a breeder.  But not just any breeder.  It had to be a breeder of Anatolians that looked just like the ones our daughter remembered from her years in Turkey; one with the distinct markings of sandy and white colored coat, with black nose and black ears.  There are several breeders throughout the US, but none that my daughter found quite met her level of expectation.  By the way, the Kangal is considered a natural resource of Turkey and they are no longer allowed to be taken out of the country.

And then it happened!  She found a breeder, not clear across the country, or out west as she expected, but just a little over an hour down the road south of us in Attala, Alabama.  I was invited to go with them to make their selection (They would not tell me what the puppy cost.), and we returned with a beautiful Anatolian Shepherd puppy, with all the right markings, and with a Turkish name, Konya, which I got to choose. 

Anatolian Shepherds are raised to take care of flocks of sheep.  They are found throughout the Anatolian Plain in Turkey, usually alongside a flock.  They wear spiked collars for the purpose of protecting their necks from wolves.  Throughout Turkey and other parts of Central Asia, they are also trained to babysit.  They are exceptionally intelligent dogs and somewhat.........emotional.

May I share a few stories about the Kangal, learned from my Turkish friends?  For example,  they can tell the difference in a person who is good, and one who is evil.  They will alert their owner when a somewhat "shady" person enters the room.  They will track a wolf for days that has threatened their flock of sheep, kill the wolf, and then return to the flock. They have superior sight and hearing, and are very strong and rugged, bred for the harsh climate of parts of eastern Turkey, and very well adapted to a nomadic lifestyle.  Their life span is unusual for a large breed of dog - 12-16 years.  They are superb animals!  And when I return to Turkey every year, I always enjoy riding through the countryside of the east, and seeing these magnificent animals tending their flocks.

 



The Tarsus dog has a snout like a pig.  I do not know much about this breed, but from the time they are a puppy, they are raised for hunting and are exceptionally good at it.  Honestly, the first time I saw this animal, the nose was the feature I noticed before what was connected to it, and I was so caught off guard I thought it was a pig!  I do not think the dog is very prevalent, or perhaps they are safely guarded by their owners.  For ten years I lived just 40 minutes from Tarsus, and I do not remember ever seeing this dog until a return trip 3 years ago. 

 

Ok, on to the cat lovers.  The Van cat is also considered to be a natural resource of Turkey.  They originate in the far eastern part of the country, around the Lake Van area.  They are quite beautiful and have one blue eye and one brown or green eye.  Van cats are pure white with a tabby colored tail.  Like the Kangal, they are no longer allowed out of the country. 

Obviously I spent more time on the Anatolian Shepherd than the Tarsus dog and Van cat.  There are two reasons.  First of all, I know more about the Anatolian than the other two breeds.  And, second, I have an Anatolian for a granddog, and you know how we grandparents can be!

High Tea at the Pera Palas in Istanbul

Afternoon Tea at the Historic Pera Palas

Savvy, seasoned travelers can argue the best places in the world for High Tea.  In London,  the wonderful establishments, many historical, that offer this 17th century delight are too numerous to list, and there's always the fabulous Victoria Room in Sydney, Australia.  Some may even argue that if you want true tradition, you must experience high tea in one of the former British colonies.  But as for me, I'll take Istanbul and the mysterious Pera Palas any day, or week, or year.  Actually, I do take it, at least once a year.

    You see, High Tea is not just about the scones, sweets, savories, and Earl Gray.  It is about experience, ambience, anachronism, romance, and mystery.  Why just sit for tea and then leave, when you can wander a bit, step back in time, have all your senses stimulated, and dream awhile? I left my colleagues sitting with Earl and wonderful piano music, wandered from the Pera's opulent Kubeli Salon, to the hundred plus year old wooden elevator.

    As it carried me slowly to the fourth floor, I was transported to the 1920s, 30s, and 40s, and imagined the famous and often times notorious who had been here before me......and are still here.  The atmosphere is thick, replete with whispers, secret negotiations, deceptions, and decisions that perhaps changed the course of history.   Had Mata Hari ridden this same elevator on her way to a clandestine meeting with a German liaison?  And on one of the floors below had Cicero, the famous spy, handed over invaluable information that turned the tide of Nazi warfare?  Did this same elevator carry Leon Trotsky to secret sessions with other compatriots of the Russian Revolutionary intelligentsia?

    I was shaken from my dream as the attendant stepped out of the elevator, held the door open, and motioned me to follow.  He led me down a red carpeted corridor, turned right down another, and stopped in front of a rather undistinguished door, that he unlocked and opened.  My eyes were immediately drawn to the writing table, sitting there just as she left it.  Years before, Agatha Christie had sat there and written, Murder on the Orient Express.   The Pera Palas was built in 1892 for the clientele of that magnificent railway, with the idea in mind that it must equal in grandeur the Orient Express.  Passengers were dropped off at the train station in the old city and swiftly carried across the Golden Horn in curtained horse drawn carriages right up to the door of the Pera Palas.  Why all the secrecy?  The hotel, just like Istanbul, has an air of mystery and intrigue, of undiscovered secrets, and of history held in place as the ghosts of past players whisk about.  It can be a bit unsettling.

   Closing the door to her room, I walked back towards the lift, preferring this time to take the stairs.  This, too, should be done slowly. The mirrored brass balustrade leads you down wide scarlet carpeted marble steps.  The period furniture on each landing is exquisite, as it is throughout the entire hotel.  The polished woodwork and molding is from bygone days when carpenters took particular care with their craft.  The Pera Palas takes you back through 120 years of history, to Old Constantinople, on a flying carpet.  The ambience is unbelievable as your mind wanders and your senses intensify.  With every step you take the creaking wooden floors remind you that much has gone on here before you.

    Getting back to Afternoon Tea could wait a little longer. On the first and second floors, I wandered past rooms with brass plates on the doors, signifying the famous, the infamous, and the enigmas who had slept in the beds behind. Back at the Kubeli Salon, I peeked in on my friends, so wrapped up in the music and their surroundings, that they hadn't even noticed I'd left.  Entering the historic bar with cushioned chairs arranged in a fashion to encourage one to linger, my mind began to wander again.  Had Ernest Hemingway sat here contemplating the "lost generation" he so vividly captured in his novels?  My eyes swept the bar with it's highly polished brass and wood and antique mirror.  Only then did Hemingway come into focus.  I could see him leaning there, and Greta Garbo upon the barstool, cocktails in hand, emptied glasses on the bar, laughing in ridicule at the expense of some politician, talking derisively of a nation full of shallow people with no direction.  Glimpsing the doorway, Josephine Baker traipses through, exotically clad in a manner that defied acceptability, dog at the end of a jeweled leash.

      But this was not a mere haven for expatriates and Bohemians.  Josip Broz Tito, too, had come here, the one Eastern Bloc head of State courageous enough to defy the Soviet Union and pave a separate path for his country. The Pera Palas  has accommodated European royalty and Prime Ministers, as well as Middle Eastern shahs, pashas, sheiks and princes, actors, First Ladies, writers, and expatriates.  And, it, like the exotic city of Istanbul that surrounds it, has hypnotically attracted me for 35 years.  I do not always stay in the Pera Palas, but it always beckons and lures, usually late in the afternoon, as seagulls glide past minarets decorating an orange and purple sunset.  This is the time and place to relax over High Tea, relish the day's experiences, and plan the evening ahead, like many who have left their indelible mark on history have done before.

Keeping Culture and Traditions Alive in Turkey

The Cottage Industry - A Rich Heritage

When I first arrived in Turkey in 1979, it was not unusual to see hand made carpets thrown over a centuries old wall in the villages throughout the country. Often these carpets bore the name of that particular village and the patterns and weaving techniques had been handed down from generation to generation. Our merchant friends introduced us to the quaintness and cultural heritage of the cottage industry, that is, carpets and other woven handicrafts that were actually done in the home, rather than a factory. It's a dying art form, as increasingly the younger generations in Turkey and throughout Central Asia are not interested in learning the unique, beautiful, and yes, time-consuming techniques, of their ancestors.

So, when a friend who lives in south central Turkey told me about a Cottage Industry that still weaves beaded jewelry, I was immediately interested and had to learn more. It's a thrill and honor to be able to carry these multi-strand beaded necklaces in my Nomads shop, located inside H. Raines Registry and Gift in Huntsville, AL.  This is an old tradition, done in the home, and the women who make these beautiful necklaces by hand get great satisfaction in knowing they are keeping their history and culture alive, as well as providing income for their family.

The entire process is done by hand. Stones and beads are attached to woven strands, and the necklaces come in a variety of colors, depending upon the availability of semi-precious stones. They will be for sale in Nomads, in August, so please continue to check our FaceBook page for when they arrive. Own a piece of jewelry, hand made, by women who are helping to support their families through keeping their rich traditions and handicraft techniques alive.

Ohhhhh, TALLULAH!

I'm coming up in August on the 2 year anniversary of not posting anything to this blog.  This is embarrassing, but, if the truth be known, I forgot where my blog was.  I mentioned this to a friend and she gave me a very strange look and remarked, "That's crazy.  How do you do that?"  First of all, I'm a Montgomery native and we're all crazy down here.  Who else but crazy people would start a war (It's the Civil War Sesquicentennial so bare with me.) against an enemy that outnumbered us 4 to 1 in military age men, had all the nation's industry, superior transportation systems, a Federal government that had been in existence for almost a century, and scads of money?  Second, it's easy.  I couldn't remember how to get to this blog to update so I started another one somewhere else and then lost it, too.  Well, enough of this. 

I, along with my partner, Jacque, pictured with me in period costumes, are well into our second month of leading Civil War Tours in the Huntsville and North Alabama area.  We're sitting in front of the birthplace of Tallulah Bankhead.  She has nothing to do with the Civil War, but since I've been gone for two years I decided I needed to come back with a real doozy.

Tallulah liked men, women, bourbon, cocaine, and cigarettes.  She also liked, actually had to be, the center of attention at every party.  If she wasn't, she took her clothes off and stood around in the nude.  She liked doing cartwheels while wearing no underwear.  Once a delivery boy came to her door and she answered the door in the nude, grasping between pointer and middle finger her ever present cigarette in it's long holder.  His mouth dropped wide open.  She asked, "What's wrong?  Haven't you ever seen a woman smoke a cigarette before?"

She, like many other actresses in her day, desperately wanted the role of Scarlett O'Hara.  Being a Southern women, many down in these parts believed she would indeed be chosen for the role.  Well, she wasn't.  Why, you ask?  First of all, she had a bad reputation that Margaret Mitchell in her wildest dreams could not have come up with.  Second, she was 36 years old and it was doubtful she could have pulled off the opening barbecue scene when Scarlett is only 16.  Or, was she 18 and her waistline 16?  I seem to have forgotten. 

She drove a Bentley, but having no sense of direction, had to call a cab which she then followed in her own car.  Preferring the stage to movies, she spent time in London, but was threatened with arrest for corrupting the young men of Eaton.

Once at a party with Eleanor Roosevelt Tallulah had to go to the ladies room, and invited Eleanor to come with her.  She kept the stall door open, dropped her pants, sat on the toilet, and continued her conversation with the First Lady.  Upon learning that Shirley Temple was often filmed through gauze, Tallulah remarked that perhaps she should be filmed through linoleum.

Ahhh, we sure know how to turn them out down here, don't we?  I think it was Laurel Ulrich who said, "Well behaved women seldom make history."  And with this I will close.

Harem: Part 2, The Eunuchs

Sultans retained a large number of eunuchs, sometimes as many as 800, to guard the women of the harem. Once again, keep in mind that I am writing of the most famous harem of all, the Topkapi in Istanbul. Where and how did the sultans get this corps of eunuchs? Most were either non-Muslim prisoners of war or slaves, were castrated before puberty, and spent their entire lives in servitude to the sultan within the latticed walls of the extravagant, labyrinthine harem on the shores of the Bosporus in Istanbul. Or, shall I call it Constantinople? With the exception of the occasional outing, the life of the eunuch was confining, although not nearly so much as that of the odalisques. And let's not forget the all too frequent charge to bundle up a young woman in a sack, leave the halls of the harem, row beyond the shores of the point that contained the massive, exquisitely tiled complex, and dump her into the rapid undercurrents of the Bosporus. Oh, yes. At the bottom of this historic waterway lies the bones of many young women who perhaps came into the bad graces of the sultan's mother, or of women far more powerful within the harem. And what was her particular crime? Perhaps she had just given birth to the sultan's son. Whatever her "crime", life within the harem was precarious, and filled with just as much mystery and intrigue as the secret passages and hidden chambers of the Topkapi Harem itself.


Because eunuchs were so trusted by the sultans, many became quite powerful. Unlike the odalisques, the young women of the harem, eunuchs were well informed of circumstances in the outside world. They stood next to the sultan as he met with foreign dignitaries and were privy to what the king discussed in foreign affairs as well as all the secrets within the palace. Do not forget the story of Esther, and the advice given to her by Hegai, the eunuch, concerning how to gain the favor of King Xerxes, and become queen.

In the beginning, and, once again, I am talking about Istanbul and the Ottoman Empire, white slaves from Russia were used as eunuchs. But they had a high mortality rate, so, usually the eunuchs were black. Most came from around the modern day areas of Ethiopia and the Sudan. They were stronger and had more endurance and had a higher survival rate from the castration process. However, their color also proved to have another purpose purely related to their relationship with the women they were charged to watch over. As hard as it is to believe, the process of castration was not always permanent, and a eunuch fathering a child, though rare, was not unheard of. If an odalisque gave birth to a child of mixed race (the loss of sexual organs did not always mean the eunuch lost sexual desire), thus evidence that a eunuch had usurped his authority, her life and that of her child hung in the balance. Many women in the harem died young.

More often than not, the castration process occurred before they left Africa. The mortality rate, as you can imagine, was very high. Think of the sweltering heat and humidity. How did they heal? They were buried up to their necks in sand for this process. (If this is too much information, perhaps you'd be better off reading my last blog about the Jack Daniels Apples.) If they survived, they became a hot commodity (pardon the pun). There were different types of castration, but maybe I shouldn't go into that. Even Sir Richard Burton, famed author of The Thousand and One Nights wrote of this.

The life of the eunuch in the Topkapi Harem mirrored that of the young women they watched over. The castration process resulted in the eunuchs being somewhat effiminate, so they tended to enjoy the same types of lavishness and pampering they gave to the women. Many became musically incined and very poetic. They dressed in lavish clothes, bathed in the palace pools, ate sweets, and grew fat. Their training began when they were young and new at the palace. Sometimes, they even got married, which resulted in them having to live outside the harem, and the end to this part of the story.

Jack Daniels Apples

I know, I know. I've already heard from some asking when Part 2 of the Harem will be up. Through circumstances beyond my control, sort of, it will have to wait until next week. Right now I'm still recovering from my experience with Jack Daniels apples late yesterday afternoon. And so, I begin. What does this have to do with historical travel? Well, the JD distillery is only about an hour up the road in the quaint little town of Lynchburg, TN (in a dry county), and it is a very popular tourist destination, especially for Europeans, and I was about to be around a few, so there!

Back to the apples. Last night, along with several other ladies from the du Midi Women's Club, I helped host a dinner for a group of international Teachers of the Year here for Space Camp. Since the dinner was not in my home, the lady who's home we were in, selected the menu and had decided upon southern food. She asked me to bring Jack Daniels Apples. Hmmm, I'm from Montgomery, which is pretty southern but I had never heard of JD Apples nor tasted them. In fact, I grew up not too far from the neighborhood in which F. Scott Fitzgerald's wife, Daisy, used to sachet up and down the street in her slip. This would be a serious digression were it not for the fact that in Fitzgerald's novel, The Great Gatsby, Jay Gatsby had made his money bootlegging during Prohibition. But this useless little bit of information has nothing to do with the apples, so back to the story.

The recipe for JD Apples was sent to me via e-mail. It consisted of only 3 ingredients: apples, sugar, and butter. Where did the Jack Daniels fit into this and how much? I consider myself somewhat of a gourmet cook and decided that a 3 ingredient recipe would be absolutely no challenge at all. So, I putzed around all day knowing that I could turn this out in a snap. I was to be at the home of the hostess at 5:30 PM to help set up for our guests who would be arriving at 6:00. At 4:30 I decided it was time to get started. I forgot that the recipe called for peeled apples. I never peel anything. Peelings are good for you. But since one of the Teachers of the Year was from Turkey, (they do a great deal of peeling there), a country I love dearly, I decided I needed to crank out my best so I commenced peeling.

The proper way to do this would be to get them all peeled at once and then put them into the melted butter for sauteing. I just started throwing them in as I got them peeled, which means that they would end up being various textures, but if texture is important in decorating then for this evening it could just be important in cooking, too. The more I sauteed the more they shrunk. By now it's 5:00 and I'm supposed to be there in 30 minutes. Did I mention she lived 15 minutes away? I looked at the pan and 12 apples of various consistency and it looked like a pretty puny serving. This would not do. I had flashbacks of Gourmet Club evenings in which I had ridiculed (behind their backs) women for bringing 8" square dishes of food when they had been told to prepare enough for 20. (Would someone explain this to me?!?) Anyway, I was out of apples but needed more stuff in that pan. Time to case the pantry.

I pulled down 2 cans of chunk pineapple, drained 2/3 of the juice and threw them in. The pan was getting full so I transferred it all to a larger pan, without spilling anything. This was going pretty well. Then I found some craisins and threw a hand full of them in too so that I could claim the dish contained antioxidants. Time for the sugar so I emptied it straight from the container and it looked like it was the right amount and that was good enough for me. Since I was on a roll, I found some walnuts, threw them into a separate pan with some sugar, candied them, and then threw them in. Now I could claim the dish also had roughage. Wasn't I clever and so healthy? All this scrounging around in the pantry had used up some time so now it's 5:15 and I need to be leaving. Time for the Jack. Oops! Alcohol should be added with enough time to saute for awhile and cook down. Not my problem.

I reached up into the back of the pantry and pulled down a bottle, wondering if there was a year for Jack Daniels, if it had been properly stored, when it had been bought, and all that. Not knowing what the proper proportion was, I dumped in straight from the bottle what looked like a cup. Okay, maybe it was a cup and a half. I looked at the pan. It didn't look right. I tasted it. Whew boy! I let the Jack sit there for awhile in the pan with all the other stuff, ran and got dressed for the evening, came back to the stove and took another look. Something was happening to the color and I began to wish I had paid closer attention in Chemistry class. I took another taste, which brought to mind something ominous I'd heard years ago about the combination of alcohol and fruit, and made a mental note to Google the fermentation process next time I had some time on my hands.

Time too dump it all into a serving dish. I misjudged how much was in the pot and the stuff ran all over the kitchen counter, down the sides, into the drawers and cabinets, onto the floor, and the Turkish carpet which I at least had gotten for a great deal years ago. I cleaned the mess up and transferred what was left in the too small serving dish into something larger and Italian. Yes, blame it on the Italians instead of my ineptitude with a southern recipe. I was not liking the color but by now it was 5:35 and I should have been there 5 minutes ago.

I carried it out to my car, sloshing all over the place, and as I tried to lower it to the floor of the backseat, it got stuck. This led to more yanking and more sloshing and it continued to change colors.

I arrived with my Jack Daniels Apples and 10 minutes to spare before the guests arrived. The dish was a real hit! Everyone thought I was really on to something with all those added ingredients. But the most enjoyable parts of the evening were, being with my fellow club members who were quite forgiving that I had not followed the recipe, getting to know our distinguished guests, and sharing a bit of southern food and hospitality with teachers from all over the world.