Birthday Throwback Surprise Photo Thing*

*Working title

In 1981, my Grandma and Grandpa Steele went on a huge tour of Europe spanning nearly 10 countries.  A couple of years ago my grandpa gave me jpegs of all of the photos from their trip.  One of their stops was in Istanbul.

A view from the Bosphorus

It’s amazing to go through the pictures and see the huge developments made to the city in recent decades and how so many of the historical monuments look exactly the same.  Although I suppose thirty-three years is the blink of an eye for an obelisk that’s been around for over three millennia.  

Even though the pictures turned out a bit blurry, my grandparents had the luxury of seeing the Hagia Sophia sans scaffolding and were allowed to photograph inside Dolmabahçe Palace.

Soldiers marching into Dolmabahçe Palace.

My favorite picture is this one of my grandma on the Asian side of the city.  

After posting the photo on Facebook, my friend Aylin figured out that the picture was taken near Beylerbeyi Palace. I went to the approximate location last year and had to ask a stranger to help.  My abysmal Turkish translated to, “This photograph….my father mother....thirty years before...new photograph...I want.”  He took a few very bad pictures and then briskly walked away from the weird foreigner.

For my dad’s birthday, I thought it would be a nice surprise to recreate the picture.  Not wanting to repeat any of the mistakes from my previous attempt, I decided to bring my friend Erkin along with me. I even did some extra research online and took a few screenshots to make sure we got the location exactly right.  Technology is the best.

Coordinates saved in my iPod and a printed copy of Marilyn Steele in hand, we took the 30-minute Metrobus ride to Beylerbeyi.

“I don’t know.  This might not be the place”, Erkin said.

“It has to be.  I saw it online.  Look at the bridge.  It’s exactly the same.”

A millennial to the core, I was convinced that the internet would never lead us astray.

“I guess we could ask some old people if they were here thirty-three years ago.”

“Okay.  How about him?”

We approached an elderly man who was fishing with his son and grandson. He said that he wasn't from the area, but his son lived there. The son insisted that this couldn’t be the spot because it was a NATO zone. The grandson looked like he would rather be playing with his iPad. The elder generations said that we should try down by the ferry station.

5 in 1: Friend/Roomie/Photographer/Translator/Purse-holder

We took a few test photos anyway and as we were reviewing them a couple of ferries pulled up with a wedding party, completely obstructing the view of the bridge.

“Fine”, I said, “we can go to the ferry station".

The area was actually quite charming. The street to the pier was lined with fancy seafood restaurants. The pier itself was lined with people fishing with their friends in the crisp December weather.

I had to admit that the view from the pier did seem closer to what we were looking for. Keeping with our strategy of asking the 60+ crowd for help, we zeroed in on a particularly old man who was bundled up in a heavy jacket, wool scarf, and a knit hat that pointed straight up like the top of a Christmas tree. He was chatting with a couple friends and seemed to be the ringleader, so we approached him first.

I thought Erkin should have opened with, "tell us what it was really like when the Ottomans took Constantinople", but instead he explained the story behind the picture and politely asked if we were in the right place.

The man squinted and carefully examined the photo. He waved over different people calling everyone by their first name. “Arda”, he said,  “come look at this for a minute” or “Yavuz, do you remember this sign?” He had totally usurped our search and I was completely fine with it.

A small crowd of senior citizens gathered around the photograph.  Gnarled fingers would gently touch details in the photograph and then point in different directions.  My Turkish is awful, but I could make out some words like, stone, different, before, now, etc.

Our self-appointed guide insisted that the people at a nearby restaurant would know.  He lead us, very slowly, to the Villa Bosphorus Restaurant.  After talking to the maitre’d, we were led to the front door of a house that faced the water.  A middle-aged gentlemen opened the door and Erkin patiently told the story of the photograph. The homeowner retreated into the house and returned with an apron clad woman in her late seventies. She shyly poked her head through the door and said, “Could I see the photograph?”

The woman told us she had been living in the house for over 40 years and that she remembered the sign.  She explained that the area was once a popular tourist spot, bursting with souvenirs and Turkish nicknacks.  

“They took the sign down twenty years ago.”

“Where was it?”, Erkin asked.

“Here!”  She leaned her tiny body out of the door, unwilling to fully expose herself to the chilly breeze, and pointed to the edge of the water. “It was just over there.”

We smiled, thanked everyone, shook a couple of hands, and headed to the edge of the Bosphorus, a few yards away.

This was it.

I stood exactly where my Grandma stood 33 years ago.  Or near enough at least.   Of course it’s amazing to walk through the arches where Mehmet II marched and to view the Hagia Sophia from Empress Zoe's loge. But it’s even more incredible to stand where my grandparents stood before I was born and to see the things they saw with my own eyes. A mutual appreciation on a three decade delay.  

With the combined power of CVS, the internet, and my mom, I was able to watch my dad open his present on Skype.

Success!

Of course (with the help of my mom and dad) I gave a copy of the two photos to my grandparents for Christmas.  

90-years-old and still looks great!

Recreating travel photos is pretty fun. Next stop: Geirangerfjord in Norway?  

A huge thank you to Aylin, Erkin, and the dozen senior citizens who helped me find the location.  I would never have been able to recreate the photo if it weren’t for the unyielding kindness of Turks.