About two weeks before our much anticipated Christmas trip to Istanbul (at a leisurely Sunday night dinner at Linda and Jay’s), Linda proudly exhibited a book called “the Hedonist's Guide To Istanbul, 1st Edition” with Vanna White flair and an audible “voila” melody: don-da-da-DONN! Little did we know then, but that book was going to set the tone for what would become the most gluttonous, most upscale, and most enjoyable trip I’ve ever been on. This is what I thought when, for the second night in a row (and the third time that particular night), I had to suppress my normally snorty, hooty laughter to a stilted, jaw-clenching wheeze to keep myself laugh vomiting up my 7 lbs. of candied fiber turds I ingested for dessert. But I digress. Let me explain.
Dec. 23: There were four of us on this trip: Breanna, Jay, Linda, and myself. We got in late the first night – Breanna severely jet-lagged after an early morning arrival from Texarcana; Linda pooped from corralling us ADHDers through the maze of airport, gates, and pee breaks; and my dad and I exhausted from racking our puny hippocampii about the last time the two of us were in Istanbul (more than three years, 10 months prior).
Dec. 24: After a typical Turkish breakfast of cucumbers, tomatoes, and cheese, (yum) we left our hotel early, heading out for a Sunday chock full of culture. We started with the gigantic Topkapı Palace, an old (1465) citadel on the banks of the Bosphorus that had considerably moderate proportions considering it held the leader of one of the strongest empires in the world when in use. Then, after 5.5 grueling hours of touring the palace, we hit the 17th-century Blue Mosque, which is actually gray on the outside, but has an interior lined with some 20,000 mostly blue tiles. Thus, the name.
Afterward, we visited the older Hagia Sophia mosque, originally built during the fourth century, and heard the sound Linda’s lung makes when exposed to repeated, unexplained pictures of my crotch showing up on her camera. Sort of a cackle followed by a low rumble. Very funny.
Finally, after all that historical refinement, it was time for a celebration. ‘Twas the night before Christmas, after all. So, ours was a feast at a famous Turkish restaurant, featuring live dancing from the various regions of Turkey.
But, while all picture-worthy and clap-inducing, these dancers – some even blindfolded and throwing daggers – were no match for the three reasonably attractive, undulating, breeding-age females who held long, deep stares with male audience members as then writhed rhythmically with the percussion heavy exotic beats. One was the worst of the worst (think: cheap, confused, trashy stripper who accidentally fired her unfastened bellybutton ring at the audience in mid-writhe). 
One was decent, and would probably be dubbed “good” by most accounts. And one was the best of the best. This final act was fun, smooth, and talented in a drool-inducing way. The best belly dancer any of us had seen, by far, making the men in the audience wish they could be Sultan and include her in their harems.Interspersed between these acts were sips of a strong, anise-flavored Turkish liquor called raki, multiple appearances of yours truly on the stage, and spicy belches that flew like my reticence into the wind. Oh what a night!
Raki, btw, turns from clear to cloudy when you add water. Much like my brain got when I added raki. Think ouzo without the “OPA!”
Dec. 25: No one really remembers this day very well. Perhaps it was the raki. But from our combined recollection, we think we:
1) Snubbed some carpet guys for a couple hours while they tried in vain to sell us “a piece of history” for 2,000 euros.
2) Ate the best buttered Iskander kebabs ever made while on the Turkish Champs Elysees (called Bagdad Street).
3) Laughed like people thought we were high while trying with stubborn American optimism to open the bathroom door at the Iskander kebab house. My dad went first, failed, and was criticized for the letdown. His response: “I know how to push open a door!” He was then helped by a friendly waiter who, after giving my dad a questioning look (seemingly saying, “Have you never seen a door before?”), gently pushed open the door. I followed, failed, and met the same waiter and his open sesame hand. Then Breanna. Failed. Then Linda, who mocked us all shamelessly. Failed. There must have been a candid camera out there. It was unreal.
4) Belched Iskander kebabs while haggling our way through the bustling and colorful Egyptian Spice Bazaar, which was the original terminus of the Silk Road.
5) Had the best bass ever at another belly dancer frequented restaurant in an area called Kumkapı, famous for its fresh fish and live entertainment. (I put the money in there, btw.)
It really was the best bass I’ve ever had, despite having to overcome my well built and much maintained wussiness by having to cut off the head, tail, and scales to get to the juicy meat. Merry Christmas, fishy. Thanks for a good meal!
Dec 26: We started the day happy, hopeful, and high-spirited as we learned that our 43-year-old Turkish guide, Ramazan, was right. It DID always snow in Istanbul this time of year. And it WAS beautiful.
It snowed without much surprise or fanfare from the locals. To them it was an inevitability. Slowly, beautifully, and quietly, the old, dusty, cracked buildings and streets of this huge metropolis were alighted with falling snow. Everything seemed to be peaceful. The oranges and pomegranates for sale on the streets seemed out of place with a white petticoat. But they seemed composed. The ubiquitous palm trees standing sentry on the banks of the Sea of Marmara looked peculiar with a dusting of snow. But they seemed serene. All was still.
Inside the lobby of our hotel, no one was stirring – not even a mouse. We American travelers from Germany were all standing silently, gazing at the first snow any of us had seen this season. To us it was a perfect, introspective, and unexpected moment. And a great one to remember.
It included a funicular to the top of one of Istanbul’s seven hills, some STRONG Turkish kahve (coffee), a miserable attempt to recreate the “Oh my love, my darling” scene in the movie Ghost, some Turkish Chay (tea), a stop by what was known to the Byzantines as "the center of the world," a final dead-man-walking strut through the Grand Bazaar, and without a doubt, the best meat I’ve ever tasted. 
The meat was served at a fancy-pants kebab house near the airport called Beyti’s that has served everyone from Arthur Miller to Serena Williams to Bill Clinton. This place is the holy temple of meat. The holy of holies. And served the following, all of which I would consider on my list of “the best I’ve ever had”:
