Across the street from Hagia Sophia is the Sultan Ahmed Mosque, otherwise known as the ‘Blue Mosque’.

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And our last stop of the day was the Istanbul Archaeology Museum. One of the significant differences between ‘Old World’ and ‘New World’ archaeology is the fact that the Old World has such a rich history of great civilizations. A museum in Istanbul can be solely dedicated to artifacts from Istanbul and the surrounding areas, and still have so many displays that it would take several days to fully appreciate them all.

One of my favorite items was this tombstone from the 4th century:

O Lord; you, who has brought peace
unto Abraham, Isaac and Jacob,
bring also peace unto the dead
and the soul of the one lying here.
O hail, o passer-by!

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It’s just that a week ago I was basking in the sun on the edge of the Aegean.

And today I drove home through several inches of snow.

That’s all.

I probably won’t be able to add more photos of the trip until the weekend is over. I need to plan out the kids’ schoolwork at at least make an attempt to update our church’s website *sheepish grin*

Surprisingly, we didn’t suffer much in the way of jet lag those first few days after our arrival. And so on Saturday morning we awoke well rested and ready to see the city. Which is a somewhat ambitious goal given that Istanbul is absolutely massive, and to reach our touristy destinations we had to take a minibus ride to the ferry which took us across the Bosphorus, at which point we alternated between walking and using public transportation.

see all photos of Day Two

First stop: Hagia Sophia, the Church of Holy Wisdom. I’m not sure I can adequately describe the place, or the feeling of standing there. The building is so grand, so beautifully designed, so full of history. I strained to imagine what she was like in her heyday, bustling with parishioners and smelling richly of incense. Drawing my mind away from those thoughts, it was sad to see what this place of worship has become. It’s a haunting beauty.

see all photos of Hagia Sophia

Now, I’ve done a fair amount of international traveling and experienced a wide range of air travel mishaps, from nearly-missed flights and endless delays, to lost luggage and screaming babies, and a metal detector that was set off by an under-wire bra (that particular incident I was fortunate enough to be a mere witness to, rather than having the embarrassment of a burly German woman trying to determine through hand signals why my chest was making the wand go all flashy-beepy. Bethany, I swear, I wasn’t laughing that hard. Snickering, maybe…)

So I speak with some authority when I say that Charles De Gaulle Airport is hands-down one of the worst places to have a layover. I don’t mind having to take a bus between terminals. And I don’t really mind the umpteen security checks required to move from one plane to another within the same airport. Their crowd control skills leave quite a lot to be desired, but that’s not what bothered me the most. What makes De Gaulle Aeroport truly intolerable is their seeming lack of concern for travellers.

Case in point: we arrived at CDG from Boston, with a little over three hours to spare before our connecting flight to Istanbul. We took the shuttle to the correct terminal, but upon arrival found that our flight didn’t yet have a gate assignment, so we looked for a place to sit. Only to find…nothing. As in nada, zip, zilch. CDG apparently doesn’t believe in providing travellers with a place to rest, save for the small restaurant at the far end of the terminal, which sought to recreate a Parisian cafe with metal tables, chairs and streetlamps (here’s a thought: if you’ve just spent six hours on a plane, the last thing you want to sit on is a metal chair)

But sit on them we did, until they finally assigned a gate a mere half-hour before our boarding time. Le sigh. Yet before we were privileged enough to sit on some real furniture, we had to go through another security check. Strike number two against CDG: they apparently don’t care if you speak French or not, because they will yell at you in French and then make abrupt hand gestures if you have the gall not to understand what they’re saying. The overhead announcements were the same way: once in French, once in English so thickly accented that native speakers would have a hard time understanding it.

That aside, the trip over was relatively uneventful. Of course, it was a few days before my backside finally forgave me.