For two days, on and off, I sat with Ahmet Geyikoglu, a textile and furniture dealer who kept the hours of a corporate lawyer. We downed cups of black tea and Turkish coffee in the afternoon, graduating to stronger stuff after nightfall. Twice we stepped out for a snack of sac boregi, an Anatolian spin on the quesadilla.
During our meetings, the mustachioed merchant would typically sit behind a paper-strewn desk while I pirouetted around his cramped shop, pulling out carpets from Pakistan and Turkey, unspooling vibrant fabrics from Uzbekistan and placing my muffet on various tuffets.
Inevitably, though, business interrupted playtime.
“Ahmet,” I pleaded, “I want the chair, the stool and the bench.”
He ignored my consumerist appeal and, without a word, bubble-wrapped the smallest and least expensive piece in my pile of wishes. When he thought I wasn’t looking — oh, but I was — he tucked a kilim-covered pillow into the package, a gift that joined several others accumulated over the weekend. The transaction complete, we returned to our coffee and conversation, ignoring the bundle abandoned in the corner.
Confession: I’m not familiar with shopping conventions in Istanbul, much less the rest of Turkey, but for me, Ahmet was the Ankara way.
“Ankara is like a smaller, slower Istanbul,” said Paul, an American engineer who lives in Germany and travels frequently to Turkey for work. “There aren’t as many tourists, and the vendors are less pushy.”
The capital city since 1923 — the founding year of the republic — is the home address of foreign embassies and several higher-education institutions. In a gold jewelry mini-mall, a clerk asked me whether I was a student or an embassy employee; he appeared surprised when I threw out Option C — a tourist.
With 4.5 million residents inhabiting 971 square miles, Ankara ranks as the second-largest city in Turkey after — do I really need to say it?
The city, you see, suffers from a Jan Brady complex; Istanbul is its Marcia nemesis. Most visitors pass through Ankara on their way to Konya or Cappadocia. If they linger longer than a day or two, they’re probably following company or diplomatic orders.
For insights from the inside, I turned to a native, the man in the red fez.
“In Ankara, work no problem, autobus no problem, taxi no problem,” said Ahmet. “In Istanbul, everything problem.”
Impressions in motion
Impressions of Ankara, as seen through a bus window.
A dusty, cracked-nut landscape rising to meet the sky but falling short. Isolated islands of modern high-rises. A pretzel-twist of highways. A disorderly city — energetic, loud and alive, so very alive.
The bus stops and I exit at the terminal, the sound of bleating cars, rumbling trucks and shouting men pricking my ears. I step into a cab, and the silent picture show continues.
I was staying in Ulus, the historic area, and the taxi huffed and puffed up a steep cobblestone road to reach my hotel, in a 16th-century caravansary. Chaos must be out of shape, because the torrent of activity never reached the tranquil top.
If you look up, your eyes will inevitably bump into the citadel, a colossal structure of towers and walls shaped by the hands of many civilizations (Hittite, Byzantine, Galatian, etc.).
I entered the grounds of the garrisoned castle through a dramatic archway across the road from my hotel. Stores draped in evil-eye pendants and silver jewelry lined the route, calling out like sirens. Rustic homes burrowed into the tight, narrow spaces, red mud huts camouflaged against the red stone. Women swept the front stoops, sending puffs of dust over to the neighbor’s side.
I climbed a set of raggedy steps and grabbed a seat on a cold patch of wall.
Yellow specks of light started to flicker below, throwing a large illuminated net over the city. I stood on the edge of a jutting wall, a precarious position anytime but especially at 5:57 p.m., when the muezzin’s booming voice calls Muslims to prayer. For the ill-prepared, it’s a broadcast that could knock you off the ledge.
The voice emanated from Ankara’s most significant and sacred mosque, Haci Bayram. The holy institution, a short walk from the citadel, shares a courtyard with stores stocked with religious items, a dancing fountain set to music and the Roman ruins of the Temple of Augustus and Rome. A sign near the ancient crumbles explains their importance: The circa-25 B.C. site glorifies Augustus, the emperor who stuck a thumbtack in Ankara on his map of conquests.
The mosque was built in 1427 in honor of Haci Bayram-i Veli, the Bayrami sect founder whose remains rest in the adjoining mausoleum.
Five times a day, the sleeping giant inside the loudspeaker wakes up and roars to life. Unsure of protocol, I approached a guard one afternoon and asked whether I could enter the mosque for a service. He aimed a finger at the women’s entrance and nodded.
After descending a set of stairs, I joined a crush of Muslim women in a mud room with cubbyholes. Like an amateur dance troupe, we clumsily hopped on one foot and then the other as we attempted to remove our shoes without falling into muddy puddles. I followed the women inside the cavernous prayer space, pulling on the hood of my winter jacket to hide my hair.
Mothers, sisters and daughters prayed, their covered heads bowed toward Mecca.
Would Istanbul welcome me with open arms and make me feel at home? Because Ankara showed up with a tray of sweets and an invitation to drop by anytime.
In a short amount of time, I forged a domesticated existence within an exotic framework. In the morning, I’d walk to the rambling food market to collect my daily provisions: dried figs and sultanas, simit (rings of bread bejeweled with sesame seeds) and pickled vegetables fished from a big barrel. I’d pass the fruit vendor, who would shout out, “Madame, good, good,” and fill my cupped hands with oranges, refusing payment. I’d visit the grocer, who would weigh and ticket my produce and throw in a handful of greens with a quick grin. I’d meet strangers who, through hot-beverage-bonding, became friends.
Staying within the borders of Ulus, I effortlessly rounded up the main attractions: the citadel; the Museum of Anatolian Civilizations, a repository of Hittite stone carvings and Roman artifacts; the street of kitchen utensils (so many pots and pans); and the 14th-century Ahi Elvan Mosque, which, with its wooden pillars and ceilings, resembles an off-piste ski lodge.
Eventually, though, guilt began to cloud the familiar scenery. I needed to get off my kilim cushion and go explore unknown parts of Ankara.
For my first boundary-busting outing, the cabdriver dropped me off at the feet (and head) of modern Turkey. Anitkabir honors Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, the founder and first president of the new Turkey, with an imposing memorial built six years after his death in 1938. Uniformed soldiers guard the entrance to the hilltop site, their Madame Tussauds expressions never cracking amid the onslaught of photobombs.
Ataturk resides eternally in the Hall of Honor, set on the Ceremonial Ground, a multi-colored travertine plaza decorated with kilim and carpet patterns. Delaying gratification, I took the long route around the square, taking in exhibits that draw a fuller picture of the legendary man.
When I was finally ready to view the mausoleum, a stern guard barred me from entering. I heard the approaching footfalls of heavy boots and quickly stepped aside, clearing a path for two soldiers cradling a wreath of red and white flowers.
The men gingerly deposited the floral arrangement on the pulpit, near a symbolic sarcophagus. Ataturk rests 22 feet below, encircled by brass cups containing soil pinched from every province of Turkey, plus the country’s half of Cyprus.
The Father of Turks cannot be seen, but his words can still be heard. For many, “peace at home, peace in the world” will go down in modern Turkey’s history.
Spirit of a city
“I really must go to Kugulu Park now,” I told Ahmet for the fifth or seventh time that day.
Despite my frequent declaration, I didn’t move. Ahmet, sensing my lack of resolve, ordered us another coffee from the German woman across the street. Later, he suggested, we could run over to her cafe and she would read my future in the coffee grinds.
On the first night I met Ahmet, I was the lone shopper on spidery lanes dark under a moonless sky. The diminutive retailer with the bright smile invited me into his shop, offering to make us apple tea. Disappearing into a back room, he rummaged around for tea fixings but returned empty-handed and embarrassed. He was out. He called a friend and asked him to go fetch two coffees.
Ahmet didn’t make a sale that night. Before I could make a bid for a chair (or stool or bench), he locked up the shop and led me to Hamamonu, a restored neighborhood of traditional Anatolian houses. Students from the nearby university packed the cafes and restaurants, chattering loudly. We chose an open-air establishment with benches warmed by heat lamps. We divided our attention between two coeds playing backgammon and a TV news report featuring footage of a terrorist attack in the region.
After three glasses of tea, he drove me to the bus stop, reached into his wallet and pulled out the fare.
The next day, I’d planned to visit Kugulu (or Swan) Park, where protesters had massed last spring after the government threatened to close down Istanbul’s Taksim Gezi Park for commercial development. Swans are a symbol of Ankara, and the flocks’ death by tear gas added a dark blot to an otherwise bright spot in the city.
Before setting off, however, I checked in with Ahmet, sharing my plans with him and a new member of the expanding social circle.
“Why do you want to go there?” asked Paul, who was sipping anise-flavored raki and perusing floor coverings for his home.
Once, I’d had a good answer, but no longer. I had discovered Ankara’s true spirit in a rug seller’s cramped shop. Now I just needed to persuade Ahmet to sell me something.