TOIST Blog
Boat notes
One of the most spiritual things to do in Istanbul is ride the ferryboats. "Spiritual" isn't a word I use often, but it feels like the best word to describe the transformation that I experience crossing the Bosphorus. Much like the power that certain music has for us, the simple act of being on a boat on the water inexplicably and instantly transports my brain to a better place. But it's not any old boat anywhere, but specifically a ferryboat on the waterways of Istanbul. The scenery in the distance is the stuff of orientalist paintings, of travel guides, of Pierre Loti, the same ancient buildings the dynasty of Sultans regarded in the setting sun, and a stunning horizon that is simply not duplicated anywhere else in the world. The combination of such a spectacular panorama and the sensation of moving through it, as though we could be living in a previous century, produces at the very least an exhilarating form of transport; at best, a personal epiphany.
The Romance of the Ship
Why are these big floating pieces of iron and steel so sexy? As the ferry pulls into the iskele, I get a rush. Is it like the breathtaking sinew of a white stallion approaching? Is it because it appears so invincible against the seas' dark forces? Or maybe it's because those masts, galleys, and purring engines underneath our bodies have the power to take us Away From All That. All those troubles of the day, the negative energy brewing inside us or surrounding us, the maddening crowds, the superficial, the stupid—yes, from all that please take us away, move our souls somewhere else, float this boat to a new Nirvana!
The ecstasy of water flotation, probably related to our primal memory of swimming in amniotic fluid nine months in utero, almost puts me in a semi-conscious state. I literally feel lifted out of myself and into a slight euphoria. As I ride on the open side decks in warm weather, often feeling the splash of the occasional wave in my face, I imagine I'm in a romance novel, having a secret rendezvous with a certain someone, a furtive yet public flirtation with an intriguing stranger for a half hour, never to see him again (possibly). I imagine that the wind that caresses my face is the same wind that touched the faces of so many others in history crossing those waves. I am definitely in a romantic reverie. And making the trip with a loved one is quite possibly one of the most magical adventures that is available, and only for mere small change at the turnstile.
Transformation, of just transportation?
But the real core of this experience is a unique kind of transformation. "When I'm on the Bosphorus boat", says a Turkish woman friend of mine, "I feel like the city is really mine, and I feel, as the poet Orhan Kemal says, 'like a woman who wears her jewellery at night'". Another writer, Metin Tekin, wrote: "the Bosphorus in Istanbul offers a banquet to souls". I agree. A feast that rearranges the brainwaves in a very short space of time. In fact, it might be addictive. A French man I met here told me that sailing, to him, was like a drug. Sailors and other people who work on ships can't quite explain why that kind of life is so alluring to them, despite not being in contact with the real world for weeks at a time. Ah! Maybe it's because of just that. It's the ultimate escape, away from land, away from the pressure of family demands, away from ugly politics, bad news, holiday madness—whatever one feels is worth getting away from.
Aside from the larger escapist aspects, our local short trip on a ferry also takes us somewhere, to another shore. And we're not in a car stuck in a nasty traffic jam on a highway at rush hour, or on a crowded bus with no windows open. I really know I'm on a ship when I see the orange life vests and the signage on the walls: "Can yelekleri koltukların altında..." (Life vests are under the seats), comforting info in case the seas are stormy some night. In addition to providing a good lesson in Turkish sentence construction, those signs offered me some food for thought. I need these boat trips, whether I'm going someplace or not. I mean, they're necessary for my proper thinking, for keeping my perspective in balance, and for yes, my "spiritual" health. For many, it's just transportation; for me, the trip across the Bosphorus is a life vest—to take me Away From All That, even just for 20 minutes.
Alexandra Ivanoff
Ex-Pat Chronicles: For the love of the vapur
Boat notes
One of the most spiritual things to do in Istanbul is ride the ferryboats. "Spiritual" isn't a word I use often, but it feels like the best word to describe the transformation that I experience crossing the Bosphorus. Much like the power that certain music has for us, the simple act of being on a boat on the water inexplicably and instantly transports my brain to a better place. But it's not any old boat anywhere, but specifically a ferryboat on the waterways of Istanbul. The scenery in the distance is the stuff of orientalist paintings, of travel guides, of Pierre Loti, the same ancient buildings the dynasty of Sultans regarded in the setting sun, and a stunning horizon that is simply not duplicated anywhere else in the world. The combination of such a spectacular panorama and the sensation of moving through it, as though we could be living in a previous century, produces at the very least an exhilarating form of transport; at best, a personal epiphany.
The Romance of the Ship
Why are these big floating pieces of iron and steel so sexy? As the ferry pulls into the iskele, I get a rush. Is it like the breathtaking sinew of a white stallion approaching? Is it because it appears so invincible against the seas' dark forces? Or maybe it's because those masts, galleys, and purring engines underneath our bodies have the power to take us Away From All That. All those troubles of the day, the negative energy brewing inside us or surrounding us, the maddening crowds, the superficial, the stupid—yes, from all that please take us away, move our souls somewhere else, float this boat to a new Nirvana!
The ecstasy of water flotation, probably related to our primal memory of swimming in amniotic fluid nine months in utero, almost puts me in a semi-conscious state. I literally feel lifted out of myself and into a slight euphoria. As I ride on the open side decks in warm weather, often feeling the splash of the occasional wave in my face, I imagine I'm in a romance novel, having a secret rendezvous with a certain someone, a furtive yet public flirtation with an intriguing stranger for a half hour, never to see him again (possibly). I imagine that the wind that caresses my face is the same wind that touched the faces of so many others in history crossing those waves. I am definitely in a romantic reverie. And making the trip with a loved one is quite possibly one of the most magical adventures that is available, and only for mere small change at the turnstile.
Transformation, of just transportation?
But the real core of this experience is a unique kind of transformation. "When I'm on the Bosphorus boat", says a Turkish woman friend of mine, "I feel like the city is really mine, and I feel, as the poet Orhan Kemal says, 'like a woman who wears her jewellery at night'". Another writer, Metin Tekin, wrote: "the Bosphorus in Istanbul offers a banquet to souls". I agree. A feast that rearranges the brainwaves in a very short space of time. In fact, it might be addictive. A French man I met here told me that sailing, to him, was like a drug. Sailors and other people who work on ships can't quite explain why that kind of life is so alluring to them, despite not being in contact with the real world for weeks at a time. Ah! Maybe it's because of just that. It's the ultimate escape, away from land, away from the pressure of family demands, away from ugly politics, bad news, holiday madness—whatever one feels is worth getting away from.
Aside from the larger escapist aspects, our local short trip on a ferry also takes us somewhere, to another shore. And we're not in a car stuck in a nasty traffic jam on a highway at rush hour, or on a crowded bus with no windows open. I really know I'm on a ship when I see the orange life vests and the signage on the walls: "Can yelekleri koltukların altında..." (Life vests are under the seats), comforting info in case the seas are stormy some night. In addition to providing a good lesson in Turkish sentence construction, those signs offered me some food for thought. I need these boat trips, whether I'm going someplace or not. I mean, they're necessary for my proper thinking, for keeping my perspective in balance, and for yes, my "spiritual" health. For many, it's just transportation; for me, the trip across the Bosphorus is a life vest—to take me Away From All That, even just for 20 minutes.
Alexandra Ivanoff