Monday, February 5th.

236, 267, 137, 280, 137—over 1000 miles in the bus in Turkey in 5 days. That’s a lot of time to sit on a bus.

It was worth it. Every day had some wow factor to it.

Most of the group went home on Sunday. I stayed for an extra day. I’ve been coming in a day early and leaving a day late for these tours.

Early—I can be sure I get in before the tour starts. Also, I can get acclimated to the time change and familiarize myself with the city we start in.

Leaving a day late allows me to relax a bit after the last day of the tour and the farewell group dinner. Many of the flights are very early. (I had a 3 a.m. wake-up call for a 4 a.m. pickup to take me to the airport for a 7:30 flight.) And I have a day on my own to visit things that looked interesting but weren’t on the tours list.

That was yesterday. I sprang for a cab to the Old Town as the hotel was pretty far out.

The first stop was the Basilica Cistern. It is a large underground pool built in the 6th century as a fresh water supply, mostly for the palace. It is a magical place. Eerie, intriguing, beautiful. Water drips from the brick ceiling high above. I was surprised there was no one in line at 10 a.m.

“Are you open?” I asked the guard at the entrance. He nodded yes and made me walk back to enter via a 50-yard long rope line rather than just going in where he stood—at the door entrance.

Many of the columns are reused Roman and Greek era. There are several hundred cisterns in Istanbul. I visited another, but it wasn’t nearly as good.

(I was to find out later what the rope line was for. When I came out, there were a couple hundred people waiting to get in. It would have been a far different experience had there been jostling crowds on the winding metal grate walkways set a couple feet above the water.)

From there, I headed to the archaeology museum. As I passed by the Hagia Sofia, I felt tapping on my shoulder. I turned, and there was no one there. Then a cop appeared in front of me.

“Where are you from?!” he demanded.

“United States.”

“Go ahead.”

What the hell was that all about? Did I look like a terrorist? I was dressed fine. Weird.

The museum was in a complex of old buildings, most of which were closed for renovation.

(Much of Turkey is being renovated, and there is a boom in new building projects everywhere.)

To get in after the ticket booth, there was a large “boneyard” of ancient sculptures set up outdoors in a park-like setting that you were required to meander through.

(I saw the Meander River during the trip. It meanders.)

It was cool wandering a path lined on both sides with ancient statues and monuments that had no rhyme or reason.

I found my way to the one building that was open. It was a typical early 20th century museum. Lots of stone steps up to a large impressive carved-stone entrance. Once inside, I knew that place was going to be magic. High ceilings. Excellent lighting. The artifacts were wondrous.

Odd, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a book on this museum’s holdings.

There was a large gallery devoted to Troy. Most of the better artifacts were “appropriated” by Schliemann and sent to Germany. Perhaps like other Western thefts, it was not all greed, but a concern that the rather primitive, at the time, conditions in the home country meant that the treasures might not be adequately protected. (Look at Iraq and Iran now—sadly, I’ll never see Mesopotamia.)

The real Trojan treasures were looted by the Russians at the end of World War II and are mothballed in St. Petersburg and Moscow.

But there were plenty of Trojan era artifacts on display, and the museum had high quality modern exhibits explaining graphically the 11 layers of cities on the Trojan site.

Various strata on the site of Troy.

There was a large glass “mural” showing what the city fortress and surroundings looked like when it was being sieged by the Greeks. Indeed, the plain between the Trojan walls and the sea was where the Greeks camped out.

I was able to put the archaeological situation together in my mind far better combining what I saw on the site with what was displayed in the museum.

There were wondrous displays of various treasures from golden crowns…

…to sculpture.

It was a great way to tie together much of the history with the many sites we visited.

Then I went wandering with no real goals in mind.

I needed hydration and a bathroom, so I chose the best thing I came across—where I could feel comfortable with the experience alone and with no language skills. The Pierre Loti Hotel and restaurant fit the bill, and it was ostensibly bookish. Though the author is mostly forgotten, he was once hugely popular. I see (and can’t sell) vintage copies of his books quite often. I ordered the cold appetizer selection and calamari—trying to eat light. It came with the pita like bread that is full of air—like a balloon.

The tastes were exotic and exciting. Piquant comes to mind. Of the 8 appetizers, I only recognized the hummus. It was a delight to go from one to the other and then bounce around ceding which to revisit. The tastes and textures were unique to my palate. The calamari was so fresh and tender—and came with another unrecognizable sauce. It was far more than I could eat, though I savored and re-savored everything over and over.

From there, I headed out to another cistern and then on to the mosque and tomb of Suleiman the Magnificent. Of course, I knew him from the Harold Lamb adventure/history of that title. Lamb is another author who was an immediate sale in the old days but is largely forgotten today.

Suleiman ruled the Ottoman Empire for 46 years and expanded and solidified the territories for the Islamic domination of the southern and eastern Mediterranean, including much of southeastern Europe.

The mosque was enormous and airy and beautiful. His tomb along with that of his once-Christian wife—Roxelana—again put history into perspective for me in a tangible way—more than just words on paper.

During the trip in Turkey—especially in Istanbul—I began noting a lot of bald men with brown stuff covering their “domes” on the streets. Same with men (and women) with heavily bandaged noses. A lot of these people appeared Western, but plenty were likely Turkish as well.

Is Turkey a travel destination for nose jobs and hair grafting?

Why are these procedures so popular in Turkey? I asked Google. https://worbimed.com/why-is-hair-transplant-popular-in-turkey/

Well, that just added to the sightseeing (without staring too obviously.)

The day was aging, and I was running out of things I was interested in seeing. I began walking downhill. The plan was to get to the bridges across the Golden Horn. There, I might get a taxi to the hotel, which was about five miles away and at the top of another hill.

I passed down narrow streets made smaller by market stalls lining one or both sides. Motorcycle food deliveries caused great disruption when the crowds had to part to let them pass. Lots of stopping and starting, backing and turning.

The Spice Market was up ahead. I had enjoyed the colorful visit with the group on Saturday. I had my wallet in my front pocket and, for double protection, I put my hand on it. It was less crowded but still full of browsers and stall keepers urging passersby to enter. There is so much duplication in goods and displays that I wonder how they survive. I wonder how the shoppers choose just which stall to choose from.

Exiting the market, I was within sight of the bridges. I started across the bridge over the Golden Horn. Its upper deck was lined with fishermen on both sides. A few hundred?

Some had buckets behind them with their catch awaiting their fate. Most of what I saw pulled up were tiny silver fish. Anchovy? The lower deck of the bridge was lined with seafood restaurants on both sides. Colorful menus were held out at you by the barker importuning you to “come in, come in.”

At the middle of the bridge, I heard seagulls crying. Lots of seagulls swirling and swarming. Turned out, a guy—I suppose a kitchen worker—was disposing of his fish scraps using nature’s garbage eaters.

It was too interesting to look for a cab just yet. (And too crowded and congested.) I kept walking, trusting my phone to guide me down the right road. The street ran along the Bosatorus, so there were interesting buildings and people.

Then I noticed there were a lot of people wearing soccer fan gear. There must be a Besiktas soccer game. I would have to pass that stadium to get to the hotel.

I walked and walked and walked.

Eventually, I got to the stadium. It is across the street from a big mosque and the palace where this trip started a week earlier. Things were just warming up. Some kids were lighting flaming smoking flares. Two large armored tank-like vehicles with water cannons atop them were stationed on either side of the square. Lots of police or paramilitary in riot gear. Lots and families with young kids in contrast.

The guide had told us it was strictly forbidden to take photos of police or soldiers. Part of me said it would be pretty cool to see a game. Part of me said it could be risky with no Turkish friend to translate or explain. I made my way through the crowd to the other side. There were some taxis dropping people off, but when I approached holding my hand up, they sped off.

“What’s wrong with me?”

I heard the sound of a big drum and marching feet coming toward the stadium.

I hurried on. There were lots of people everywhere. The restaurants were full and the sidewalks too. No chance of getting a cab.

A couple of miles to the hotel. Up a big hill.

Well, I finally got there. I’d pushed my achy body 30,869 steps, the phone told me.

I dragged myself to the elevator to get to my room.

“Water… Water…”

The “Rooftop” button on the elevator caught my eye as I ascended. Though we did little more than check-in and go to our rooms the night before, I recalled there was a restaurant up there. I deserved a reward. After cleaning myself up, I took the lift to the top.

It was stunning. Panoramic views in every direction. There were only a couple of tables with diners.

I really just wanted a cocktail or wine… but I also wanted to take the ambience of the gorgeous Italian restaurant and its views. I was shown to a window-side table. I knew then I was going to eat a fine Italian meal and await the sunset, no matter how tired and achy every joint in my body was.

I started with an Old Fashioned. (It is a good sign if a southern European [I was in Europe then] restaurant knows what an Old Fashioned is.)

The underworked young waiters in black and white tuxedos were anxious to help me. Too anxious. When I set the wine list and the menu down, one guy started to take them.

“No. I’m just thinking about what I want. Ten minutes…”

I headed for the Gents as an excuse to walk past the windows and, as surreptitiously as possible, snap pictures on my phone.

That’s a bridge across the Bosporus to Asia and other views of the city.

My appetizer was a kind of eggplant parmagiana. The entree was salmon, pasta, cuttlefish ink. The dessert was a kind of deconstructed Napoleon—mille-feuille.

I had a glass of Chianti and finished with the best tasting decaf I’ve ever had.

It was a magical way to pass my final evening in Istanbul—a constantly changing overview of all the places I’d been.

By then, it was after 9 p.m., and my wake up call would be at 3 a.m. I headed down to my room, but not before being sent off by a half dozen managers and waiters as the elevator doors closed.

I crashed and awoke in what seemed moments later to my wake-up call. I hurriedly showered and packed and rolled my stuff to the lobby. At the airport by 5. Check-in went quickly. No surprises. The flight to Paris was smooth.

February 5th

The snow capped Alps
once limitless on the horizon
give way to an endless
blanket of low white clouds
That covering is far beneath us
Below that invisible solid ground
Perhaps a river runs through it
Earth is invisible from on high

So much of life is finite
My town, my home, my work
My little circle of family, friends and acquaintances
Here I sit in the soft roar of this jet
amongst a couple hundred strangers
while below, below the endless covering of white
are towns and people
speaking different tongues
living different lives
But all are under the high blue sky
In the deepest valley between snow capped crags
the same sun illuminates
each ion of the billions

We descend toward the covering
impenetrable to the eye
But the steel ship holding us
will slice through
and glide toward earth
The plane slows and banks toward Paris
The layer of white turns gray
the deeper we go into it
Then brown and we break through
to see green fields
rooftops and roads
until the plane strikes the earth

There was a four-hour layover at Charles de Gaulle Airport, which I didn’t mind.

Then the flight to Dulles. It was so very long. I finally got to see Oppenheimer, which was enthralling. Finished my Philip K. Dick book. Wrote some.

I breezed through Dulles Customs. Using Global Entry, I was only stopped for 10 seconds.

“Anything to declare?”

“No.”

“Welcome home, Mr. Roberts.”

He never looked at my passport. The “camera” knew who I was.

I was home on the mountain about 6 p.m. Monday—which was 4 a.m. Tuesday Turkish time. I’d been in motion or in airports for 24 hours.

I got the woodstove lit, turned on the well pump and hot-water heater and soon crashed hard.

Tuesday

The tree guys were coming early in the morning. (Great timing on my part.) There were a couple leaning precariously toward the house. And I wanted some “vista pruning” to improve the view.

Their visit forced me up early and out so I wouldn’t be in the way of the equipment, i.e. parked in.

At work, I looked around, assessing. Things were fine. Until Ernest had to leave. That meant I’d have to do his work as well as try to catch up with mine.

I was a bit dazed with jet lag and exhaustion but soldiered through as many carts as I could.

That evening, I got the dogs back—all three this time. Pip has a bad cough. They got him antibiotics and cough medicine. He still doesn’t sound good.

It was good to sleep in my own bed—with three warm dogs. I wasn’t a “three-dog night”, but it was good to have company.

Wednesday

The first dawn after the tree work.

And not a single tree was taken down.

I can’t wait for the Equinox in March. Can sunrises get better? We will see.

Carts. Carts. Carts.

One biblio-impression striking my whatever-part-of-the-brain those impressions strike after another.

The checks for the first month’s rent at both new warehouses were in! 3-1/2 years since the process started in August 2020. A huge financial relief. And a bit of pride at the accomplishment. All those people that helped put this together… I’ll have to have a grand opening party.

I took Pip to the local vet. No diagnosis except chronic bronchitis. If it was contagious, his brother would have it. They do everything together.

More meds. He doesn’t act sick or lethargic. As active and crazy as ever. They turn 13 on February 11th.

Thursday

Carts. Carts. Carts.

I had an eye appointment. Just tests. No opinions.

From there, I went to the Frederick store to see the new comic cases.

WOW!!

Back to the warehouses.

I met with the managers about January sales at the stores. All 3 were down, but not by much. The three snowstorms and closures caused it.

I headed home early. I feel a little better. Back and joints not so sore. Cough 95% gone. I still get tired near the end of the day. Like slamming into a wall.

It was 57 and sunny.

Guess what?

What?

I planted about 600 bulbs since the gardens were thawed.

The good news is most were good and firm. They may come up stunted this year but should survive and be impressive next year.

The bad news is there are about 400 more. And these are mostly lily varieties that are more difficult to plant.

Today will get to 60! No matter how tired I am, I’ll need to force myself to get the rest of the bulbs in the ground. It is a duty as much as anything. One is responsible for the living things one takes in to care.

And my weekend? It will be books, books, books.

And no one to help.

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An old friend in the book trade passed away last week.

I first met Jim Visbeck in 1972. I was an 18-year-old freshman at Connecticut College. He would have been about ten years older. There was an antique show set up in the student union. He was a vendor with a table of antiquarian books. He had a two-volume set of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. It was $45. That was a lot of money back then. But I thought it was a first edition and was greatly underpriced. I hurried to the library to do research. I had NO IDEA what I was doing. I was a kid book collector but had never had any training in real collectible books. I bought it, thinking I was making a big score. I had no idea the words “Fifteenth Thousand” on the title page meant that it was little more than a reading copy.

I also bought a group of seven matted Gustave Dore engravings from Dante’s Inferno. I thought they’d look cool on my dorm room wall. Some of the girls who visited thought so too. I wrote about this before here.

Flash forward almost ten years later. I was now a 27-year-old bookseller setting up at my first ever antiquarian book show in Tampa, Florida. I recognized Jim as a fellow exhibitor. I don’t think he recalled me.

Wonder Book exhibited there every year until about 2000. It was like “spring break” for booksellers. It was also a great 4-day seminar for a novice bookseller. I learned a lot about other booksellers and customers—good and bad. And I certainly couldn’t afford a real vacation.

Jim was at every one as well. He and his partner drove all the way from Cape Cod.

Every year for the 19 consecutive years I went and likely every year since.

I’d always tease him about Uncle Tom’s Cabin.

Flash forward another few years, and I joined the ABAA (kicking and screaming.) Jim was already a member. We began corresponding over the fledgling internet.

We got along well.

He often had funny or quirky anecdotes. Sometimes bookselling is a contact sport?

I kept telling him I’d come visit his shop on Cape Cod—Isaiah Thomas.

He told me his shop was an old clapboard house in Cotuit on Cape Cod. He’d joke it was painted pink.

I never got there.

My loss.

He started Isaiah Thomas Books in 1969. That’s a good run.

I will miss you, Jim. Godspeed, and don’t scout all the good books. Leave some for those that come after.

Thank you for accepting me in the earliest days and in the latter ones.

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Due to all the various duties and activities expected of me this week—plus my jetlag/COVID hangover—I don’t have time to post what happened on the second half of the Turkey trip.

(One duty was my semi-annual doctor’s appointment. All the numbers are better. My back pain is almost gone, but I think I still list a bit to starboard. I won’t be stupid about way too heavy, icy, slippery objects. I’m getting a raft of blood tests before I go back to work. I hope those numbers are good. I have way too much to do. Things I want to do. Things I feel I must do. Places I want to go. People… I guess I don’t need much of that anymore.)

Next week, I promise.

But I will express how exciting and exotic Turkey was.

And I will express how hard the tour was. We averaged 200 miles on the bus every day. If last week’s story was a bit bouncy, consider that much of it was pecked away while swaying and bumping and slowing and speeding.

I didn’t do many steps every day (except the last.) My iPhone step count was peaks followed by long flat lines where I was on my butt.

The food was wonderful, though we too often had group meals in the hotels, which were pretty… blah.

We were cautioned to not drink the tap water, and I was hesitant to eat anything that wasn’t packaged. I was leery of vegetables and fruit except in the best places. After all, they would be washed in… whatever.

I’ll never get over having visited Troy. How many times was Hector chased around the citadel by Achilles? Thrice? Where was Achilles shot in his heel? How beautiful was Helen who stood upon the same walls I did? What happened to all the gods and goddesses who pulled the strings of the hapless human heroes? Did they die? Go somewhere else where they’d be worshipped and feared? Where did Odysseus launch his ship for his ill-fated nostos to Ithaca?

Literature and books really begin with Homer and Troy. At least for me.

It’s time to read them again.

And look forward to the next rosy-fingered dawn on my lonely mountain.