Stanford 

August 6, 1962: Letter from Sam in Izmir Turkey to Parents

Dear family, 

Next installment, this time from Izmir: lots more action, including another blow by heavy-handed fate, so the letter should be a long one. 

I’ll start from where we left Athens. You know we reached Istanbul from my postcard, but a few notes on the Athens – Istanbul trip might be of interest. We drove like hell the first day, along the not yet opened Athens – Thessaloniki freeway, ignoring all "Closed" signs and frantic gestures from workmen, making it to a youth hostel in the latter city by dusk. Unfortunately, the beds were all taken, so we slept on the concrete porch, but the price was reasonable. Getting up very early the next morning (thank the sun for that), and downing tea and bread, complements of the management, we started east. After a short side trip to Philippi at noon (nice ruins, but hostile archaeologists), we parked our grimy car in front of a sidewalk café in Cavala, grabbed the next available ferry for Thassos, and we’re on that island wonderland in time for dinner. Thassos is a beautiful place. It’s enough out of it to be almost free of tourists (except for the hearty-German-youth and the hearty-English-family type; but they get everywhere), and yet enough in it to have facilities (food, hotels, shops, etc.).  What’s more, it has good beaches, secluded nooks, and wild Greek grottos of Pan and Dionysus, etc.) If St. John is too far removed from modern civilization, my next vote will be Thassos.

We spent the night and the next morning climbing all over the place, and returned by boat again to the mainland; then we learned the virtue of parking a grimy 1952 VW in front of a sidewalk café which is trying to attract customers: the café owner had washed it until the machine shone . All the old codgers got a kick out of our surprise. (We barely recognized the bug), but wouldn’t take any money. It pays to be an American student in Greece, I tell you - it’s like being a descendent of Zeus, or something.

The drive from Thassos to Istanbul was pleasant, but no sidetracks this time: the entire western limb of turkey is one big military zone, so nobody can get off the highway, stop, take pictures, etc. Istanbul was a hairy riot. All kinds of neat things happened, and one lousy thing. We stayed in the city at the YMCA, on the southern side of the Golden Horn (Stamboul), in the heart of the old section. From our windows, we could see the old city fortifications enclosing the peninsula to the north and west, the Golden Horn to the northeast, the beginning of the Bosphorus to the northeast, and the northern tip of the sea of Marmara to our south (you see how my geography course has influenced me).  The horizon, especially at dusk, was studded with the minarets of hundreds of mosques, including that of Suleiman The Magnificent north of us, and St. Sofia and the Blue Mosque just behind us. Right around the corner from the Y was a clean restaurant which served Turkish food: yogurt, milk (goats, I think), rice pudding, cola coca (a good imitation of coke), meat, pastries, and, of course, the ever present pilau (rice).  we ate there often, but also fit in some solid Turkish food into our budget, places with such magical names as Abdullah, and HaJji-Baba. Authentic Turkish food, we discovered, means lots of rice, a meat dish (shish kebab, beef cut against the grain), tomato–hot pepper–onion salad, and “Turkish delight “ (gooey candy) for dessert. We loved it all. Best of all were the fruits: grapes, peaches, all kinds of strange melons; we had no constipation problems that week. On the contrary, we often, in times of great need, were forced to search for bathroom facilities of a more comfortable nature. Our wishes were answered in the Istanbul Hilton.

The Istanbul Hilton deserves a paragraph all its own. Here is a hotel, which is making a salient, and almost successful, effort to bring western ideas of class and comfort to the east (Western prices too, I may add).  Nothing else in the city even distantly rivals it. I can best describe its physical appearance from our guidebook note on it: “a sumptuous, sober-lined building”.  We laughed too. It has a pool, thick carpets, a jazzy band, and American drinks. But it can’t completely rid itself of the city it is in: lots of shady characters are always walking around, lots of girls in flesh tight pants are always sitting around, and occasionally a dog gets loose in the main lobby. I liked the presence of two cats under the piano in the bar room, having a gay session amidst quite unconcerned Turks and perfectly shocked Americans. Oh yes, get the sign we discovered in a beauty, parlor window, and an annex of the hotel:

• Massage And physio therapeutics

• Tonic and facial massages

• Special massage for  Sliming (sic)

• For rheumatism with American Hydro Collector steam packs

• Aesthetic treatment and Mascotherapy

Miss Xanthippe  D. Karamitis

But the toilets were good, so we forgave everything else.

We contacted Jim’s contact in the Hilton after arriving at the Y: a professional guide who took his aunt around a lot in times past. He is now employed by the government, and, because of his special talents (speaks seven languages, and knows Turkey cold), is reserved for special guests. The guests, he told us later, have included Onassis, Callas, JP Morgan Junior, and Charles Gordon. He played bridge with the latter, since he claims he is the Turkish grandmaster. I don’t know what percentage of what he told us was bull, but a hundred percent was interesting. Being a very busy man, we could only get a day of his time, but it was free, and we got into a lot of places closed to the public, and managed to buy some plates at less than wholesale price. Will be sent to 835 Pine Hill as soon as I return to Athens.  

We had Muhammad the guide for our last day in Istanbul, and then saw all the obvious sites before touring with him. The mosques are of course, wild, with the callers at prayer time, the huge domes, the decoration on the walls (no pictures of JC and the boys allowed, it seems), and the Turkish rugs covering the entire floor spaces (free to run around on in stocking feet, although Saint Sofia is the bigger name, and a greater historical importance (incidentally, it cost 200 million gold sovereign to build: $2 billion if it were built today – the most expensive single building in the world, said Muhammad.  I like the Blue Mosque better. It was pretty. The Archaeological Museum had some goodies, including the tomb and skull of Alexander, but the big treat was the royal Palace (Seraglia), with its harem quarters, fabulous jewels (largest pearl in world, largest ruby, largest pink diamond, $20 million snuff case, solid gold throne, etc.), and, in general, money. These boys had the knack all right. Who else would paper his walls with gazelle skins? God, what people. But I can’t describe the whole city to you – go read about it somewhere. Driving in the place, incidentally, is harrowing: the borderline between sidewalk and street is none too sharply defined in the pedestrian's minds, and the taxis don’t make things any better: they pick up as many passengers as they can, wherever and whenever they can. Tail lights, signals of any sort, and compliance with other drivers desires, of course, are nonexistent.

The police, however, do command respect, as would anyone who wears a gun, a stiletto, Bobby stick,, and a crash helmet. They are the toughest looking boys I have seen thus far in Europe, and, judging from the stories of the persuasion methods of the Turkish police force that I have heard, it’s not just looks. Muhammad says witnesses are tortured into confessing, and I almost believe him.

One afternoon, as Jim and I emerged from the Hilton, we were confronted by some guy who wanted to change money for us at Black market rates (14 to 1: official rate is 9 to 1).  We have been offered an exchange several times before, but this was the best rate yet, so we were sold. I agreed to meet him the next day (I needed time to cash a check for American dollars). Before I go any further, I must remark that every tourist we met had been changing unofficially, that our Turkish guidebook recommended it, that Muhammad did it for Jim's aunt (but couldn’t for us because of low funds), and that it’s not as scary and operation as the title sounds. This time it was. The next day I met the guy at the same place. (Jim waited in the hotel), and he asked to have my dollars: he would bring the lira back after giving the dollars to the “boss “. I said No, there was no guarantee that he would return, so, finally, he agreed to let me ride with him and a taxi driver to the place. We drove awhile, and then stopped, and he asked for my money. I felt safe this time, being in the taxi with the driver. (accomplice), so I handed it over, and waited for his return. Two hours passed, and he didn’t return. I told the driver to take me to the Hilton. On the way back, he stopped at a door, went inside, and reappeared with the man. The latter said that, just after he gave my dollars to the “boss“, the place was raided, and the boss arrested; he was freed, because no money was found on him. Ergo, my money was gone. Nice confidence game, you must admit: I couldn’t go to the police, because I would then face a heavy fine for dealing with the black market. The man was a good actor, however, and seemed very sorry for what had “happened“, so he agreed to meet me the next morning in front of the Hilton: he would try to round up some money from his friends for me in the meantime.  

Well, I told all this to an expert on such matters in the American Consulate. He said, meet the guy, and threaten him; if he didn’t show, I was told to forget the whole thing. Well, for some reason, the guy showed up the next day, which puzzled me: it wasn’t part of the confidence game. I threatened him (I had the license number of his accomplice, his taxi as bait), he seems scared, so we set on another meeting time for the next day. The expert, when told that he showed, said this sometimes happens if the confidence man needs inner support; needs, that is, to see that he is trusted in the eyes of somebody else. My threats didn’t help that much, so the guy of course failed to show up the next day.

But we had a good lead, so I wrote a letter to the consulate, explaining my plate, and asking them to get my money back ($60 all told).  Before Jim and I left, we left a letter at the office, and our guide friend promised to push the matter for us. Since the American Consulate is law in Istanbul, the chances are very good that our money will be back in our hands within a few weeks. Until those few weeks, however, I’m going to have to ask now for some funds to tie me over: I’ll need enough to last me until Paris, and for my transportation from the East Coast to San Francisco: wire me $300 at American Express Athens, and I will have no sweat. When the confidence man money comes back, when Jim pays his part of the car gas, and when I sell the car, I should be in very good shape. Remember: I am borrowing the money. I’ll repay by typing papers till the wee hours, or something. And please don’t think that I’m such an idiot. The confidence man was good, yet the consul office thinks I may have nab him – this doesn’t happen often, they mentioned. Also, about the accident quote: if I don’t have another accident, it turns out cheaper than if I had bought insurance which covered my own car as well. The spinners are not weaving me as bad a life as all that, after all.

After Istanbul, we hit Asia – hookah, camels, veils, little beggar boys, and all the rest. We paid our respects to Troy and Pergamum, and are now sweating out the heat in Izmir. Our hotel is cheap, but so is the clientele – Jim thinks the place is a whorehouse, in fact. So our stay here the next few days should prove interesting.

Tell Len I eventually got his letter, and will return him one chock full of the juiciest, unmentionable parts of our trip. Got Bruce’s letter, and will answer in like manner. Too bad you parents won’t even even know what’s really happening over here. Heh-heh.

Lots of love, Sam