Man, how the skyline has changed since 1997 and it continues to do so: at night, red warning lights dot the cityscape as new buildings go up and up, the St Paul's rule be damned (until maybe 2008 no building in central London could obstruct the view, or be taller than, St Paul's dome).
Sonnet and I spend the weekend at the Rathfinny Wine Estate in the South Downs of Sussex which offers some of the world's very best sparkling white wines due, in part, to a warming climate. The grounds are lovely and isolated, surrounded by the vineyards, of course, which spread across a number of valleys not far from the seaside.
Our weekend comes to an abrupt shocking end upon learning the terrible news that Madeleine's friend Aiden has passed in his sleep likely from an epileptic seizure. We are heartbroken.
Eitan and I , and a roomful of old age pensioners, have coffee at Pembroke Lodge in Richmond Park, protected by the Crown Estate and once home to Bertrand Russell. The southwest views of the Thames Valley are lovely on any day and especially when clear and cold, like today.
While difficult to see the grade, the below photo presents a steep hill from river level to the highest point in the park where Eitan once did Sunday hill-runs when in training ("brutal", he now says).
Sonnet has never been to Dublin so we go for a long weekend. Along with the Dublin Symphony, conducted by the wonderful Marin Alsop, a re-working of the 1950s play "The Quare Fellow" at the national theatre, I swim The Forty Foot which is about 30 minutes outside of Dublin 2 (central). The spot has been around over 200 years - women allowed from 1989 after protest - satisfying the Irish love for cold-water swimming. It is located on the Dublin Bay off the Irish Sea itself from the Atlantic Ocean.
The water temperature is 11C (about 52f), well within my comfort zone without a wetsuit, yet the air temperature is a near freezing 1C which has me concerned about the the getting-out. I'm in for 35 minutes and, upon exiting, the after-drop a serious thing requiring quick-dress hindered by claw-hand. It takes about two hours to fully warm up.
We have the unexpected joy of connecting with Aisling and Orla at Forty Foot since Aisling jumps most days; later we are joined by David though Eitan's grade-school friend Joe is in Spain on a study-year.
Sonnet and I are joined by Halley and comprise the senior adults at two tables of 11 otherwise filled be 20 year-olds. We have calculated this to be the 20th year of Thanksgiving with Halley and her girls.
Meanwhile Madeleine departs no 45 early to return to Manchester for a club party opening at Midnight, going until 10am the following morning. My offer to pay her cash to remain the night is rejected as are my counter higher offers.
Of the young people, Aiden has never carved a turkey while four have not tried a martini which I prepare using the recipe of my grandfather only less dry vermouth (the original 1950s drink was 50:50 vodka or gin plus dry vermouth). I explain that while simple, the martini is rarely made well and only three venues in London qualify, in my opinion : Dukes in St James's (the king), The American Bar at the Savoy (of course) and Claridges for its lovely art deco bar. Along with the drink, the maker must have a practiced story to tell during the preparation to ease his/her guests into the evening.
We also stop by the Yenj Cami "new mosque" (1665) on the Golden Horn but for another time.
And so, like that, our trip comes to an end, as I sip Turkish coffee at a street-side cafe awaiting the airport transfer.
Thank you all for sharing the last four weeks with Eitan and me. Thank you for your emails, and being with us.
Really? So we go. Firstly, the mosque's dome is flat ("easy to make a curved dome, hard to make a flat one") and, from the inside, the lines break dramatically upward, even awkwardly, towards the ceiling peak (pictured). The detailing is exquisite. It is peaceful with no tourists and feels like our own discovery.
For its history, the Greek Orthodox dedicated the church to Saints Sergius and Bacchu from when it was built in 536 AD. The structure converted to a mosque during the Ottoman Empire from 1452 and remains a place of Muslim prayer today.
There are sunlit rooms inside and Eitan reads the Koran.
Immediately I am struck by the noise, traffic, construction, movement, hustle and (most) women not wearing hajib in contrast to the last four weeks. It is autumnal and the tree leaves are browning.
We stay at a nice hotel, a reward for our travels, 15 minutes walk to the Hagia Sophia built in the 6th century by the Eastern Roman Empire (the Byzantine Empire was one and the same) and an Eastern Orthodox Church until the Ottoman conquest of Constantinople in 1452; it was a Catholic cathedral for a century after the Fourth Crusade of 1204.
The call to prayer from Sophia is, per Sunni, 5x a day, competing with the Blue Mosque 500m away, for beauty and song.
As Eitan and I have been in the Sofia and Blue Mosque before we choose to sit in front of each in the wonderful shade until the sun sets. We are joined by two friendly dogs.
The 2005 Tulip Revolution and the 2010 Kyrgyzstan riots were here - the latter to oust President Bakiyey, whose son, Maxine, split for the UK during the upheaval, taking a whispered two billion and a place in Knightsbridge (Eitan and I debate if it is simply a crime or a cliche). 86 protesters died and Bakiyey fled to Minsk while sentenced, in abstentia, to 24 years prison time in 2013.
In front of the presidential building - pointing at it in fact - is Lenin. It surprises me that the statue not destroyed with the rest at national independence; now, unsurprisingly, it is a tourist point.
Run down or decrepit Soviet block towers stick out like a sore thumb with very cool Soviet symbols atop, in a city that is trying to modernise itself rapidly: cars disobeying traffic rules, 24 hour ATMs and new hotels; Coca-Cola of course. There is a KFC.
We go to the bazaar which is dense and enormous filled with copycat Nike and Polo, vibrant fruits, nuts and cheeses and all cuts of meat smelling of fresh blood to make one gag. Despite being barely passable and unmarked, the passage ways have their own sense of order. A woman on loudspeaker broadcasts who-knows-what, silenced briefly for the Muslim call to prayer. Neon advertising. Blade Runner.
At this point in history Europe had no direct communications with the East, other than the missionaries who bumbled about trying to convert the heathens. The Mongols were a terrifying, demonic prospect, whose empire was expanding across Central Asia, China and Persia and was at Western borders by the 13th Century. The opportunistic Viennese merchants wanted to make contact and secure trade and great wealth with Islam. A second voyage set out for Constantinople and beyond, this time including the young Marco Polo, with the aim of completing a promised mission to the great Kahn bringing him oil and knowledge from the West; the journey to reach him took three years with Marco paying attention.
The Kahn, who consolidating his vast kingdom, was impressed by Marco's observations from the lands he had journeyed and asked MP to cross his Mongolian Empire and report back his findings. MP did so, using Kahn's seal to allow him him passage and protection from the conflicting Mongolian warlords. He returned 17 years later - Kahn received him as one of his own.
MP's writings were published in the 14th Century and were a sensation across Europe. A discussion continues to this day whether Marco Polo was a fictional character created by the publisher, yet the descriptive detail of the writings indicate MP was almost certainly the witness.
On the now paved highway - four lanes with markings! - the driver must remain alert to the odd cow that wanders on to the road and stands dumb, unyielding, though it sees us.
Tian Shan means "mountain of Heaven" or "mountain of God."
A proper autumn has arrived at altitude which means winds, clear air and a dusting of snow on the mountain tops that surround us. In late October or November the heavy snows arrive closing the passes until springtime.
Today we drive to Bishkek, the capital city, and tomorrow it is Istanbul.
China, meanwhile, had revived under the Tang Dynasty and expanded in Central Asia, murdering the khan of the Tashkent Turks - perhaps the most costly skulduggery in Chinese history (the Silk Route had already given them a strong presence here). The enraged Turks were joined by the opportunistic Arabs and Tibetans; in 751 they forced the Chinese into the Talas Valley (present day Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan) sending what little remained of their 200,000 strong army back across the Tian Shans, marking then, and now, the outer limits of the Chinese Empire.
And so it goes.
We have the luxury of electricity (from 7pm) and cable tv allowing Eitan to watch Bayern Munich defeat Manchester United (in Russian), the game starting at 1am. No question of his watching.
Two Russians arrive late and drink their own home made whisky informing it is 60% alcohol (not that were are competing, we are).
Note the Christ child hanging on the wall.
Who, then, can call jihad? Any imam and only in response to an attack, or threat, on the Muslim practice. The ultimate authority is the most learned 'student' of the Koran - the Ayatollah Khamenei, for instance. But the local Osh imam can do it, too.
Why would a practicing Muslim want to go to paradise (72 virgins) for Jihad if he loves his wife? "He loves his wife and Paradise is only18 years. Then what? Nothing, it is dust."
Is there 'hell' for, say, murder? "32x heat of the sun."
Yet nothing, says Jyghal, including murder, is worse than pre-marital sex which disgraces the family and the village. I wonder: Does it flip everything on its head - women are the center of Islam, reflected by the ability to cause the greatest harm, instead of subjugated in a dominant male culture? I don't know the answer.
"Stan" means 'land of" like Kazakhstan. Or Finland or England.
There is also an isle dedicated only to liquor which surprises me - it is for the tourists, of course, who are mainly Russian. There is a direct train from Bishkek that runs from Spring to September 1 for the beach holidays.
Manchester United plays Bayern Munich at 1am and Eitan stays up to watch the match. Jyghal knows every player on the team yet has never heard of Elton John. Or Taylor Swift. For my part, I am happy to be asleep during the game, dear.
We enter Balkchy city next to Issky-Kul lake, the largest in Central Asia and the seventh-deepest lake (668m) in the world, the tenth-largest lake by volume and the second-largest saline lake (0.6% vs 3.5% for seawater) after the Caspian Sea. Issyk-Kul means "warm lake" in Kyrgyz; although it is located at 1,607m and subject to sever cold during winter, it rarely freezes due to the salinity. The lake's southern shore, where we are, is dominated by the Tian Shans over which is China.
Yes, I swim here.
It snows at Kalamk pass (3,352m)
In any case, initially, for efficiency given one free day/ week, the men, led by Jyghal, hit Lidl and Asda (low-cost grocery chains) and empty the shelves of all the bread, eggs and sugar - and directly told they cannot do that. Next time, "we get smart, use two shopping carts" we laugh.
The promised accommodations turn out to be a caravan "very awful. Very cold. The winds shook our place so bad." Electricity and gas purchased on the meter - "so much" - until Jyghal takes matters into his own hands and finds a house for six, rented from a Bulgarian he finds on Facebook - "only a Bulgarian would rent a place to guys like us, otherwise impossible." The house is far from the factory and Jyghal somehow sources a 2005 Honda for £1,700, haggled down from £2,000. "Oh, man, the insurance and tax so expensive" and not anticipated in the purchase price. The car serves its purpose and then given to the Bulgarian for the final months rent ("we told him we had no money") and accepted only after Jyghal proves the MOT is good for another six months.
I nod to Eitan, don't laugh too loud: such conditions are endured by most young people - my first apartment in Manhattan on 6th Avenue not far from being a tenement house shared with three college friends with one sleeping in the closet and the commute to work on the subway a cattle-call. These stories are gold dust.
Our trek is extended when we take a wrong fork and must eventually cross rolling grassy fields, passing untended horses, and underneath a cowboy sky.
The dogs are ubiquitous in the villages, often underfed or starving, sometimes old and friendly and always non-threatening and well behaved. Herding dogs are a different category. While not on par with Border Collies from a simple observation, they are indispensable for the task.
A man runs across a crazy Osh street, like Frogger, jumping from lily pad to lily pad on a dangerous stream. He is carrying a man-sized punching bag on his shoulder.
Before this point we hit our first rain/ snow turning the dusty road to mud and making the coal grounds even less pleasant. I am happy to drive by.
Halasa has four young children. Her husband, I learn ,is Jyghal's colleague at the touring agency. The family lives in a modern well lit condominium in a nice central neighbourhood.
Covid was devastating to Osh and Jyghal's family.
Kairet and Nurkyz will remain with Kairet's family until the youngest son is married then they are free to leave as the new family bridge and groom move in.
The late-evening's final toast/prayer "Beta" is made by the eldest father (82) : "Wishing you make a happy and easy life, we hope you give us children." As he speaks, our palms are open before us, then over the face, brushing downward with our eyes looking up.
Jyghal explains, there is no sex before marriage - "it is impossible" (and called "harem") which would be the most "horrible thing" in Sunni Islam - he snickers it is OK for Shia though.
This will presumably be the couple's first time with the naked opposite sex nor have they been allowed pictures of "bikini women" or sex education, at least formally or in the family. I can see why they may be petrified.
The bride and groom have know each other four years and it is Kairet's decision of marriage. Once agreed, he makes the argument to his family presenting Nurkyz's friends, reputation and family history.
Before the wedding there is a 'Nika' where the imam of their mosque prays for the couple, enabling them to become husband and wife. Then it - sex - is 'Halal', clean, and OK.
In Sunni Islam, before the ceremony, the bride is checked by two or three people to confirm she is a virgin, which is reported to the husband's mother (I do not ask who does the checking as I sense it crosses a line). If it checks out, a dowery to the bride's family is discussed and called "Kalan," Jyghal says, "we will pay for her, it is like this is Islam." How much? 250,000 somone and six sheep ($3,500+$500 for each sheep). It is a negotiated sum that started at 400,000 somone and ten sheep.
Party? Dates are set within a month. The bride's family hosts. There is a culling of numbers ("it is very big money, we must cut everyone"). Despite the enormous family burden, we are included with a moment's hesitation ("Rirsk" means "God to bring all together with us, special guests and generous always").
The Islamic wedding is a remarkable and joyous event on the outskirts of Osh with many courses of local food including four slaughtered lamb of which the fourth goes home with the guests in large plastic carrying bags (Nb one lamb can feed 12 people). For the dinner, one lamb is smoked all day and three are boiled and everything - everything - is eaten or taken home. For me, the food is the most extravagant part of the affair costing equal to several months of a doctor's-equivalent wages.
Eitan and I have two meals with the 23 family elders and one meal, in a separate room, with the groom and his c 15 male friends. Bare in mind no English, no alcohol. It is a real affair and we feel accepted as privileged guests. A toast - in broken English - is made on our behalf which I reciprocate.
We dance and the elder women are the most uninhibited of the party ensuring that we are participating. Eitan charms their socks off.
I sit next to the "Godfather" (via Google translation, may be wrong) who is decidedly not the "best man" though he is the married-couple's age. What does he do ? Ensures the bride and groom remain happy - I interpret it like an inner-circle friend and therapist for the groom. "It is a very big problem for me," and we share the joke.
