"Lilly?" I asked, as we entered the darkened room, for once again, the electricity had gone out in Sultanahmet. We groped our way around chairs and tables to meet up with friends of mine who had just arrived in town for their first visit to İstanbul."Is the weather this time of year always like this?" Lilly asked, obviously wondering if a family reunion in Turkey would entail sightseeing during storms that threatened to knock her petite body off her feet. Peeling off our layers of wet clothing, we sat down for a meal by candlelight. While we waited for our food, I explained about the winds, and told them the weather forecast actually predicted nice days and clearer skies in the upcoming week. Tonight, their first in town, however, was not all that unusual for this time of year.
In Turkish, the wind has different names, depending on what type it is, and from which direction it is coming. The generic name for wind, or breeze, is simply "rüzgar." İstanbul's location provides it with two very different winds to contend with. The warm gales coming from the southwest are known as "lodos." The "poyraz" is the wind that blows in from the northeast, and usually brings with it cooler, rainy weather. Both can create havoc as storms cause the Marmara Sea and Bosporus to look like boiling cauldrons of water. Boats are wildly heaved about, roofs are sometimes torn off, and any item left out on a balcony has the potential to become airborne. Turks have told me that the winds are nature's way of keeping İstanbul clean, as trash and polluted air are blown away somewhere else.
Lilly and her family had gotten into town from the airport just as the lodos hit with all its fury. Knowing that they were expecting my son and I to meet them for dinner on their first night here, we had hurried to take a ferry across the Bosporus from Üsküdar to Kabataş. The wind had been blowing for a little while, but from our sheltered balcony it was hard to estimate just how strong it was. My son and I did not know that the ride across the water would turn into a rolling, almost sickening trip. As the captain guided the tiny boat across the white-capped waterway, there were times when the waves were higher than the craft. The passengers all glanced uneasily at each other and eyed the orange life vests stowed overhead. When we finally made it to Kabataş, it took almost 10 minutes until the captain could position the boat to be tied up without crashing into the concrete pier. Passengers lined up to exit the boat, holding on to each other to keep from being tossed overboard. Two burly men stood on the pier and lifted passengers off the rocking boat and onto land. After everyone had disembarked, it was decided that the waters were too rough to attempt a return journey, much to the consternation of passengers waiting to cross to the Asian side after a long day of work. By this time, the rains had started, drenching us as we ran for the tram to Sultanahmet. Once safely on the tram, my son looked at me and said seriously: "Mommy, I don't think I like roller coasters anymore. That boat ride was not fun."
As the tram wound its way through rush-hour traffic, we had a chance to see the remains of the now-missing Karaköy boat landing, a recent victim of the high winds. As we departed the tram in Sultanahmet, we were hit with more winds as I gripped my small son's hand as tightly as possible as he stumbled along next to me. Our walk to the end of the Hippodrome seemed to take ages as the wind assaulted us, pushing us first one way and then another. Slowly we made our way to my friend Virginia's house, and she came along with us to meet up with my friends. With her holding one of my son's hands, and me clinging to the other, we anchored him between us as we pushed on against the wind and ducked to avoid objects hurling down the streets, heading toward the sea.
After finally finding Lilly and the group in a small restaurant, I recounted for them my first introduction to the lodos. My husband and I had just moved into a top-floor apartment in Üsküdar. From our balcony, we had a magnificent view of the Blue Mosque, the Hagia Sophia and the Topkapı Palace. Our house quickly became a favorite spot for dinner parties, as friends relaxed outdoors and watched sunsets over the water. I did not know, however, about the lodos and how hard it could batter a fifth-floor apartment. I knew about the harmattan winds of West Africa, the mistral of France, the blue northers of Texas, and the chinook winds of Canada, but I was unprepared when the lodos hit İstanbul during my first year here. The winds came suddenly, and in the span of a few hours, our balcony had been swept clean by the force of the air currents. What chairs were not blown off the balcony and down the street were piled in a jumbled mess against a wall of the balcony. Shoes that were left outside were sent skyward, never to be seen by us again. The winds howled around the building, blowing through every crack and crevice so that we had air tunnels inside of our apartment. And, just as quickly as the lodos arrived, it departed, leaving clear blue skies and still water on the Bosporus and the Marmara Sea.
As it turned out, Lilly and her family awoke the next morning to a beautiful fall day in İstanbul. The winds and rains of the night before had vanished, leaving the city a little cleaner and fresher smelling. In spite of their initial welcome to our city, the weather was quite pleasant for the rest of their visit. For those of us who live in İstanbul, the lodos and poyraz are facts of life that we have learned to deal with. But, they do have a tendency to strike when you least expect it.
