ONE BIG GLORIOUS BAZAAR : The Markets and Street Vendors of Istanbul Help Define This Vivid City, Where Ideas and Goods Have Been Traded Freely for Centuries

ISTANBUL SMELLS OF HONEY AND WOOL, COFFEE and pistachios, newsprint and fried mackerel. It smells of luxury and necessity, of salt, canvas, tar and gasoline. Istanbul smells of commerce.Istanbul is the only city astride two continents. Asia and Europe are both joined and separated by the Bosporus, the strait whose currents flow through Istanbul in two directions--a warm, northward thrust up from the Mediterranean by way of the Sea of Marmara and a colder, less salty flow south from the Black Sea. Like the fish that have sustained many generations of Istanbullus (as the city’s residents call themselves), ideas, languages and ambitions--and mercantile goods of every description--have also swirled through this conduit.

The first city on the site, Byzantium, was a modest Greek trading colony that languished under Rome. Under the Emperor Constantine, though, it became the great Eastern Roman capital of Constantinople. Constantinople’s language was Greek, its law Roman, its state religion Christianity. We call its epoch, art and intrigues Byzantine , after Byzas, legendary founder of that initial Greek settlement.

Constantinople became the most populous and prosperous city of the medieval world. Trade in hides, wine, frankincense and grain was matched by a traffic in doctrines. Theological hairsplitting provided as much employment as the mercantile fleets. Franciscan monks set up shop here in the 13th Century, while St. Francis was still alive. In 1204, the Fourth Crusade--Roman Catholic armies funded by Venetian merchant bankers--sacked this capital of Eastern Orthodoxy, which was a juicier, more pluckable plum than distant Jerusalem, in the clutches of infidel Arabs. By the time the Ottoman Turks captured Constantinople in 1453, it had become a depopulated and demoralized shadow of a city. They named their dingy diamond Istanbul, from the Greek phrase eis ten polin , meaning “to the city.”

Within 100 years, a Muslim Istanbul was again a booming cosmopolis, where a score of nationalities and sizable communities of Christians and Jews (refugees from the Spanish Inquisition) all traded with each other and the rest of the world. Caravans brought slaves from Africa and the Caucasus, spices and jewels from India, furs and amber from Russia, silver and gold from the New World, foodstuffs from around the Mediterranean, cloth from Venice and Samarkand. The famous Silk Road led here.

Today, Istanbul is a sprawling, chaotic agglomeration of peoples and purposes, astonishingly rich in art and architecture, a quintessential city, a sifter of risk and reward. The worst thing I can say about it is that it’s locked in mortal combat with the automobile, the cancer of modern economic growth. But above the traffic, you can still hear peddlers hawking artichokes and melons, a muezzin’s call to prayer, church bells, the melancholy notes of a tavern zither. The evening skyline of domes and minarets, crescents, crosses and dockyard cranes epitomizes the continuum of spiritual and secular endeavor.

For all its pulsating neon, Istanbul still has a human heartbeat. The pleasure of the smallest errand or transaction always makes me thankful to be here. “May your cough be gone,” says a bank teller, insisting that I share her herbal tea; a boy refuses a tip for carrying heavy parcels; a taxi driver begins a $2 ride with the supplication, “In the name of God, the Compassionate and the Merciful.” This is my idea of civility--of civilization--a place where you can wear your jewelry, drink the water, eat the arugula. Even the fax machines work.

Can there be any comprehensible introduction, for the first-time visitor to Istanbul, to a city stretching over so much time and space? Too many visitors end up merely awestruck--and exhausted--by the city’s museums and architectural riches. It’s almost impossible here to know which way to turn, which roads to take. Clearly, a plan or guiding principle is called for--and I have a suggestion as to what it might be.

Every time I return to Istanbul, I visit its markets to get my bearings. And every time I show the city to friends, I like to take them on a walking tour that focuses on trade--on markets, street sellers, vast bazaars. My aim is to present Istanbul as the unabashedly commercial nexus that it is. After all, it is the “pursuit of piastres,” to quote the Encyclopaedia Britannica, that has fueled centuries of artistic patronage in this gilded city. Of course, the route I follow--through the European portion of the city--is incidentally studded with splendid edifices, evocative vistas, delicious snacks and quirky detours. Istanbul’s markets seem to touch every other part of the city as well--which, of course, is the point.

Let’s begin with a glass of freshly squeezed pomegranate juice on the sidewalk in Taksim Square while taking a moment to familiarize ourselves with the city’s internal geography. You and Taksim Square are in the center of the Beyoglu district, full of garlanded Beaux-Arts apartments and soaring hotels. The Golden Horn, a scimitar-shaped inlet of the Bosporus, separates Beyoglu from Stamboul, the old city where most of Istanbul’s Roman, Byzantine and Ottoman monuments are located.

Off the square runs Istiklal Cadessi, a bustling thoroughfare newly closed to all but emergency vehicles and a quaint tram shuttling along a central track. Istanbul is a city for those who delight in detail, from the tiny Ottoman stone birdhouses on the northwest corner of Istiklal to the modern retail vitrines festooned with bolts of Italian silks, English pin stripes and Turkish mohair in shops along the way.

Cane baskets on long ropes dangle from side-street balconies amid the fading signboards of Greek furriers and Sephardic milliners. Tugs and cries allow upper-story residents to consummate transactions with egg or yogurt sellers down below. Virtually any comestible--from hot kebabs to watermelons cradled in hammocks of old sheets--may be hauled up.

Halfway down Istiklal, the Cicek Pasaji, or Passage of Flowers, gives way to a fish market. Trying to sell you a glistening turbot or giant shrimp from the Syrian coast, the fishmongers look genuinely crushed when you confess that you’re staying in a hotel, without kitchen facilities. Mingling with the seafood sellers are a score of delicatessens selling olives, cheese and comb honey; an herbalist (the only source I know in Istanbul for tofu), and a restaurant that specializes in tripe soup, an essential hangover cure for habitues of the nearby beer halls.

Academic publishers and antiquarian bookstores cluster around the bottom of Istiklal. Atop the steep alley of Galip Dede is Librarie de Pera, a multilingual bookshop that also holds auctions of rare volumes and ephemera. Surrounding shops make and sell traditional Middle Eastern musical instruments. A simple stringed saz , a kind of long-necked lute, can be had for less than $50.

Cross the Golden Horn on the sidewalks of the new Galata Bridge, as bland as its predecessor was lively. The former bridge was framed in floating fish restaurants from which to ogle this unchanged view of the famed Topkapi Palace above jostling ferries and fishing dinghies. Rumor (a Byzantine specialty) has it that the old bridge may be resurrected, but for now it lies dismantled, farther up the Golden Horn, near the cast-iron Church of St. Stephen of the Bulgars, another curiosity.

Labyrinthine walkways beneath Stamboul’s reconstructed roadway snarl lead you to the gray hulk of the Yeni Valide Mosque. Beside it is Misir Carsisi, the Egyptian Market, also called the Spice Bazaar. (Larger mosques were designed with shops adjacent so that their rents might support pious programs--Koranic instruction and feeding the indigent.) The pungency of fenugreek-cured beef pastirma wafts out from the bazaar. Hucksters of apricot aphrodisiacs and kiwi-flavored lekum (Turkish Delight) complement the assault. Sadly, high rents have forced many of the more traditional aromatics shops out of the bazaar, but one that still maintains standards (as well as a huge selection of culinary and medicinal spices) is called Acar, located in stall No. 42. They sell Iranian saffron packaged to resemble miniature peacock fans and keep their very best rose attar locked in a closet.

A few yards from Acar is the Kurukahveci coffee grinding and roasting shop. Mehmet Kurukahveci’s family has sold coffee since before the Ottoman Empire lost Yemen, the source of its best beans. Today, the beans are Brazilian, but the intense industry and intoxicating aroma of his establishment suggest that business has never been better.

Along the Spice Bazaar’s west wall, a riot of scarlet peppers, eggplants, leeks, okra and purple carrots announce the presence of one of Istanbul’s best produce markets. Fresh fruit and vegetables aside, its variety of rice and grains is unsurpassed as well. Istanbullus have a reputation as gastronomic spendthrifts, addicted to rice pilaf with lots of butter--which folklore says is the food of those who dwell in paradise.

Stalls on the eastern side of the Spice Bazaar, remains of the Ottoman bird market, now sell nursery plants, garden paraphernalia and pets. (Falling between the medicinal and pet categories, leeches are sold here, too.) The guild of nightingale-sellers is long gone, but the fortune-tellers still use rabbits and doves to select folded-paper portents for their clientele.

Uphill from the Spice Bazaar, the warm smell of sawdust announces the Uzun Carsi, the Long Market, full of woodworking shops. Beyond these, with their cradles and spoons and such, are suppliers of hunting gear, embroidered military insignia and prayer beads. The brass-workers’ ateliers sell everything from belly dancers’ finger cymbals to star-and-crescent minaret finials. Also available here: children’s hair barrettes, evil eye talismans, Adidas gym bags and seamless white ihrams , simple togalike garments worn on the pilgrimage to Mecca.

Toward the top of Uzun Carsi, the veritable suction of the Kapali Carsi, the Grand or Covered Bazaar, begins to exert itself. I always try to resist it, though, long enough to detour to the back of the Bayazit Mosque, where a laconic flea market spreads beneath a gnarled plane tree known as the Tree of Idleness. Here, spring-wound watches with lurid green faces and Cyrillic lettering count the hours. Lenin medals gather dust amid postage stamps and the tarnished coins of defunct empires.

Knowing my weakness--that I could spend hours here--I swoop quickly over the orange-crate tables, pass up a photo of Archduke Ferdinand and scan inventories of Bakelite buttons, crucifixes, keyless locks and a one-armed Barbie doll. Sacrilegiously, I’m reminded of a famous Byzantine fresco in the Church of St. Saviour in the Stamboul neighborhood of Chora. The painting depicts Christ, having broken down the gates of Hell, yanking Adam and Eve from their graves on the Day of Judgment. Around their tombs lie the lost things of everyday life--dog bones, keys, pieces of jewelry--as well as the bound Satan. All right, no Barbie dolls, but you get the idea.

Sometimes, a dark poyraz wind from the Black Sea impatiently rustles the leaves on the Tree of Idleness. Whiffs of roasting chestnuts, chick peas, lamb fat and long-brewed tea are in the air, but maybe the poyraz carries other scents to these vendors of cultural castoffs--pickled cabbage, sour rye, the coal smoke of other towns, other homes washed by the Danube, Don and Dnieper?

What New York was to Eastern Europeans at the end of the 19th Century, Istanbul is to some of their kin at the end of the 20th. Requiring no long weeks in steerage, this is a closer El Dorado, one you can reach by bus or Aeroflot. And you can go home again, with a bale of blue jeans and soft leather jackets to unload in Krakow or Yalta. But you’ll probably come back to Istanbul again--to peddle your grandmother’s wedding dress, a bogus icon or a dozen jars of caviar. Istanbullus call this “suitcase commerce,” and the whole area between the covered Bazaar and the Aqueduct of Valens thrives on it.

Hotels with names like Pisa and Paris are filled with Slavs, Romanians and Hungarians learning the free-market ropes. A hand-lettered sign in English directs one to “Home-Cooked Cuisine served by Balkanian Turks.” These might be members of Bulgaria’s oppressed minority or even Muslim Bosnians, whom Turkey continues to accept into its swollen cities. Another kind of desperation--or boredom--has adventurous and entrepreneurial non-Muslim “Natashas” from Russia investing their capital--youth, pretty faces, compliant bodies, distance from disapproving families--in the most predictable of professions.

For respite from the profane, soothe your soul with calligraphic scrolls, marbleized papers and leather bindings in the adjacent Booksellers’ Bazaar, where the written word has been the stock in trade since Byzantine times.

Then the Covered Bazaar. . . .

After two decades of visiting Istanbul, I know the Kapali Carsi by its scent of indigo cloth, its tinkle of tea-glasses, its blindingly bright windows filled with 22-karat dowry bangles--a commodity so fundamental in the Turkish economy that their daily price is published beside those other market staples, flour and mutton. (While a first-time buyer of Oriental rugs almost always pays more for something here than he would back home, virtually no one is cheated on gold jewelry. Members of the jewelers guild police each other.)

Even more glittering are the bazaar’s players--Central Asian Uzbeks hauling bundles of quilted coats; a Kurd offering an Indian sari he found in Aleppo; an Assyrian Christian dental assistant-turned-goldsmith who tells me that he’s Jewish, but his best customers are Kuwaitis, and that his sons can sell pearls in six languages; a Sephardic leather tailor insisting he’s Armenian as he flirts with French tourists; a former paratrooper-turned-rug-dealer. Personalities shimmer and change color like lengths of silk.

Over one portal of Kapali Carsi, stone-carved strokes of graceful Arabic quote the Prophet Muhammad: “The trader is God’s beloved.” Mine, too.

GUIDEBOOK

To the City

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Telephone numbers and prices: The country code for Turkey is 90. The area code for European Istanbul (including all the numbers below) is 312. (Turkish city codes have recently changed, so disregard other Istanbul area codes you may find in guidebooks.) All prices are approximate, subject to seasonal change and computed at the rate of 16,000 Turkish Lira (TL) to the dollar--but Turkish inflation is rampant, so most hotels quote prices in dollars. Hotel prices are for a double room for one night. Restaurant prices are for dinner for two, food only.

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Getting there: There are connecting flights between Los Angeles and Istanbul most days on Continental and Turk Hava Yollari via Newark, British Airways via London, Lufthansa via Frankfurt and--the shortest itinerary--Delta via Frankfurt.

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Where to Stay: In Beyoglu: The Marmara, Taksim Square, telephone 251-46-96, fax 244-05-09. A five-star hotel offering wonderful views of the city. Rate: $200. The Richmond Hotel, Istiklal Cadessi No. 445, tel. 252-54-60, fax 252-97-07. A new four-star hotel on a traffic-free boulevard. Rate: $160. In Stamboul: Aya Sofya Pensions, Sogukcesme Sokagi, Sultanahmet, tel. 513-36-60, fax 513-36-69. Reconstructed Turco-Victorian townhouses on a traffic-free cobblestone lane, next to the famed Haghia Sophia basilica/mosque/museum. Rate: $135. Hotel Piyer Loti (also spelled Pierre Loti), Piyerloti Cad. No. 5, Cemberlitas, tel. 518-57-00, fax 516-18-86. A modern hotel, near the Covered Bazaar. Rate: $85.

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Where to eat: Istanbul is street-food heaven. If it looks good, it probably is. But here are some recommendations when you want to sit down: In Beyoglu: Haci Abdullah, Sakizagaci Cad. No. 19; tel. 293-85-61. Homey stews, pilaf and puddings; no liquor. Decor is hundreds of jewel-like jars of pickled fruit; $18. Cati, Apaydin Sokak 20/7, off Istiklal, tel. 251-00-00. A rooftop cafe with piano bar. Specialties include classic Turkish hors d’oeuvres made with the freshest ingredients and assorted grilled dishes. The crystallized tomato dessert is wonderful and unique; $35. In Stamboul, lunch is usually a better bet than dinner. It’s hard to go wrong in any of the parlors serving kebabs and pide (leavened bread baked with toppings of meat or cheese). For a little more elegance: Havuzlu Lokanta, tel. 527-33-46. In the center of the Covered Bazaar, this lunch-only restaurant serves stews, salads and grills with old-fashioned manners; $20. Kaser Levi Lokantasi, Tahmis Kalcin Sokak, Cavusbasi Han, 23/10 Eminon, tel. 512-11-96. For a taste of Constantinopolitan pluralism, Sephardic specialties in a kosher restaurant run by Muslims. Lunch only; $20.

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For more information: Turkish Consulate General, General Office of Culture & Information Attache, 821 United Nations Plaza, N.Y. 10017; (212) 687-2194.