Wanderings through Büyükada

Ferry
(for all images, credit Carolyn Drake for The New York Times)

Late on a peaceful night in May, on a quiet island in the Sea of Marmara, I walked alone on a curving street edged by walls dripping with ivy. Behind the walls, palms and red pines loomed above Ottoman mansions that drowsed in the leafy darkness. With no sound but my own footsteps, I continued down a slope that led to my seafront hotel. Then I paused. Ahead of me, in the half-light cast by a streetlamp, I saw a cluster of tall, undulant shapes at the turning. Women, or horses? I wondered. Nearing, I nodded: horses. And then I laughed out loud. How on earth, in the 21st century, was it possible for me, or for anyone, to succumb to such poetic confusion? It was possible only on an island like the one where I found myself: the island of Büyükada, an hour’s ferry ride from Istanbul, a place where time stands still.

So begins a splendid column in today's NY Times about the island of Büyükada, just an hour's ferry ride from Istanbul:

http://travel.nytimes.com/2011/07/10/travel/buyukada-near-istanbul-is-an-island-idyll.html

Sea of Marmara

Marmara seen from Aya Yorgi

Icons at Aya Yorgi

Candles at Aya Yorgi

Faytons

Horse gaze

A wild horse in the woods

Konak

And here I tried a Romanian version:

Tarziu in noapte, mergand pe o ulita in panta, printre ziduri vechi imbracate in iedera, in spatele carora palmieri si pini rosii lasau sa se intrevada vechi conace, mi s-a parut ca zaresc, la lumina unui felinar chior, umbre mari unduindu-se. Sa fi fost femei? Sa fi fost cai? M-am apropiat: erau cai. Am inceput sa rad zgomotos: oare in ce loc bincuvantat de Dumnezeu ma aflam de ajunsesem sa am dileme atat de poetice?

Ei bine, ma aflam pe insula Büyükada, pe Marea de Marmara, la un ceas distanta de Istanbul: venisem cu feribotul, admirand valurile marii si zborul pescarusilor, si acum ma aflam aici, unde timpul se oprise in loc. Nu erau nici Starbucks-uri, nici wi-fi, nu erau zgarie nori si nici masini! Doar faetoane trase de cai, asa cum vor fi fost prin Bucurestii veacului al optsprezecelea, si conace: de piatra ori de lemn. Unele parasite de mult. Pe vremuri multi greci, armeni si evrei boagti isi aveau aici conace de vara. Ii indepartasera mizeriile politice ale veacului trecut. O manastire, Aya Yorgi, imi mai vorbea de un trecut care se incapatana sa isi transmita mesajele. Si un nebun ca mine, sorbindu-le si traind in inchipuiri.

Ei bine, nu am fost eu pe Büyükada, desi tare as vrea. E doar o inchipuire, de fapt inceputul unui articol de ziar din NY Times, la care am mai adaugat cate ceva.

(Blogosphere)