My Brief Life in Asia Minor

Istanbul has always fascinated me.  At one time the capital of the Byzantine Empire and the cultural and religious center of the world, this city literally lies on two continents, Asia (hence it being historically referred to as Asia Minor) and Europe, with the waters of the Bosphorus Strait splitting the city in half.  For centuries, it was known as Constantinople, after the Roman emperor Constantine who, as the first mega-church pastor, legalized Christianity and made it all the rage in 313 CE (that’s Common Era for you AD folks.) I also recently learned that Istanbul is still known as Constantinople by certain folks, mostly Eastern Christians who may or may not still have their tighty-whiteys in a bunch since the Ottoman Turks rolled into town in 1453, converted everyone to Islam, and changed the name on the water tower.

Istanbul, separated by the Bosphorus Strait, showing off her mosques. 

   

A trip to Istanbul has always been on my bucket list and, in recent months, I’ve felt the pull even more acutely. However, given the current state of affairs, the U.S. Department of State is currently advising us ‘Mericans NOT to visit Turkey, giving it a “2 out of 5 Trumps” rating due to concerns of “suicide bombing” and “kidnapping and assassination” risks to American citizens. Sheesh, they’re so sensitive at the DoS.

I lived in Turkey from the time I was two years old to four years of age when my father, a fresh-faced 25-year-old member of the U.S. Air Force was stationed at Balgat Air Base in Ankara, Turkey. A few months ago, while visiting my parents’, Dad played me audio recordings of his old reel-to-reel tapes we made during our time in Turkey. To pass the time, we would make recordings of ourselves talking about our day, of Dad playing the guitar, and of my infant sister crying; we would then send these tapes back to the States for the rest of the family to hear. In 1972, it was no doubt riveting entertainment for the folks back on the farm in western Illinois. They in turn would make their own tapes and send them to us. It was the prehistoric version of FaceTime.

As I listened to these recordings for the first time in probably 30 years, my fascination with Eastern culture and music began to make sense.  My mother told me that the only thing to do in the afternoon was to listen to the local Turkish radio station that was on the air for a just a few hours a day.  I could hear the music in the background as I listened to our recording and, in a moment of true epiphany, realized THAT’S where my love of eastern music developed. The YouTube clip below is a good representation of our afternoons listening to Turkish radio. I listened to it repeatedly as I wrote this and I think you'll enjoy listening to it while you read. 

My Mom also sent me some pictures of where we lived in Ankara. I was somewhat taken aback by the first picture of our front door.  It literally took me to the opening sequence of the Exorcist when Father Merrin is stumbling through the dirty streets of northern Iraq. But then I remembered that it was Turkey in 1972; that’s how it was everywhere.

The front door of my home in Ankara,Turkey.

There have been many studies on memory and how early we can recall our first memories. I swear to God that I have memories of my time in Turkey. Perhaps I was closer to age four than age two but I swear I remember us being excited to see that a donkey had suddenly appeared in our front yard. I use the term “yard” very loosely as I don’t recall a single blade of grass in the entire city of Ankara. 

It's 1972 in Turkey...don't be surprised if a donkey wanders into your front yard.

I also remember a stone wall near our house with some steps carved into the side so one could climb from the lower level up to the next level. I remember being scared to death trying to climb these steps, which at the time seemed like climbing Everest to me, but in retrospect, were likely only 3-4 feet high. Why my parents were letting their little boy climb daunting stone-carved Turkish walls I don’t know but, like I’ve already said, it was Turkey and it was 1972. There wasn’t a lot to do.

As with most kids, I had a trike (and, according to the picture below, a hat fit for a Soviet Premier.) I also had a Turkish friend whose name I’ve long forgotten. I remember being quite jealous of my Turkish friend and her cool Turkish pedal car. Perhaps this is where my lifelong inferiority complex started: my trike and I couldn’t hold a candle to that cool little car!  

That's me on the trike, green with envy, wearing my Leonid Brezhnev hat. 

I remember learning to count to five in Turkish: “Bir” (beer), “iki” (icky), "uc" (ewch), "dort" (dirt) and "bes" (besch.) I remember my American friends being mildly fascinated with this for the first hundred or so times I did it. Not so much after that.

The snowy streets of Ankara, circa 1973. I've no idea what's holding my sister up on that sled.

Present-day Ankara and the Kocatepe Mosque.

From the towers and domes of the mosques that dominate the Turkish landscape, to the serpentine scales and mesmerizing melodies of Turkish music, all the way to the dusty, ancient stone-front neighborhoods, it’s become obvious to me that the city of Ankara and Turkey itself were indelibly etched upon my psyche at a very early age. The pictures and sounds of my past have given me a new-found love and longing for a country that, unbeknownst to me, has been calling me back for the past 45 years.

Thanks for checking in...

Travis