Towers of Maiden and Flame

"Although she was working as our maid, her profession was as an extrasensory physician. Feeling hungover? Nana would blow on your eyes. Got a funny knotty feeling in your knee? Nana would wave her hands over it and create some sort of healing vacuum. She claimed to be Russian but had weird --almost wicked--green almond eyes."

                                             

The Flame Towers have become the international symbol of Baku and, probably Azerbaijan. They're the Sydney Opera House of vanity hotels. Three weird petal-shaped skyscrapers that are intended to look like fire mid-crackle. They're definitely tall, and definitely unique, dominating the skyline and the imagination.

To me they look like Cthulhu or a kraken's tentacles bursting through the earth and thrashing over the city. Our apartment is almost at their base. It makes an easy landmark for taxi drivers.

We awoke from our nap in their shadow. This was a bonus day which we'd penciled in for recovery from the flight. We were refreshed, so figured we'd just get the lay of the land before making a more targeted strike in the morning. Wandered our way to the Old City. The roads aren't really set up to accommodate pedestrians, so there was a great deal of back-tracing and sudden flights through gaps in the traffic.

                                                      

Some nice views of The Caspian Sea from on high. Oil tankers slugged their way to market. It used to be, this sea, surrounded by the Soviet Union and Iran, but now it's got six or seven countries who make claim to its use. The increase coming from former Soviet Republics declaring their independence. It's full of oil and sturgeon (from which the best caviar is harvested), so they all want a piece of the action.

Maybe a month ago, they all signed some big treaty to treat it like a lake instead of a sea, since there are weird maritime rules that apply otherwise. Now they all happily sail along the Caspian Lake and do their business without fighting. Is the theory.

Wound our way down to the ancient city center where the Maiden Tower lives. This building is on the money and a big part of the national mythology. Before the other religions dumped their caviar all over the place, the Zoroastrians worshiped fire here. It's what the Flame Towers are nodding to. Cool, solid-looking chunk of 12th-century architecture.

                                                   

We were in a nice, open plaza now, all marbled and cool. The town comes alive at night. It's hot during the day, and twilight is the time to slide around and order pistachio ice cream. A Turkish dude was putting on quite a performance scooping it up and ringing a bell. We got some from a more-dignified vendor. Chiefly because he didn't have a line. He called the cone a "biscuit," which I thought was cute.

You want it in a cup or on a biscuit?

There were lots of hat dealers and magic lamp dealers and carpet dealers. Very casual, which was nice. None of the "My friend! My friend! Come see, only to look, not to buy! Where are you going, my friend?  I do not want money, I just want to share the culture of my people! You insult me!" of Morocco and elsewhere. It was nice.

A little kiosk offered "paklava" which we did not immediately recognize as "baklava." But it was. They offer it in more of a diamond shape here, as opposed to the triangles I'm used to from elsewhere. I was like, "Oh, baklava," and some kids made fun of me. They called out "oh, baklava" after us in the same way you would make meowing sounds at a cat.

This is the sound these creatures make.

                                             

So, a very fine Old City with the vibe of a medina minus the constant pressure to submit to direct commerce or commercial hospitality. Sara had read about a place with "representative Azeri dishes," so we made our way there for dinner. Nice little restaurant with fancy rugs on the walls and waiters dressed up like extras in an opera about pork chops.

Huge menu with lots of plov, a national dish we'd read about consisting of fruit and nuts mixed into long-grain rice. It only occurred to us upon seeing it that it was "pilaf."

The language is a little difficult, a kind of mash-up of Turkish, Russian, and it's own thing. Ha is yes, Salaam is hello. I haven't mastered "thank you" yet. It seems the rules are still evolving as well. For example, the town of Shaki is also spelled Sheki on some maps and even Baku is listed as Baki. It's like they just take whatever vowel isn't busy at the moment.

Hey, U, I'm about to say "baku," come on over. Sorry, bro, quite impossible. Tied up. Call I, he'll help you out.

                                                 

Nice meal of various meats and plovs. When the server tried to pour the tea, the leaves clogged the spout, and he got a fit of the giggles watching it trickle into Sara's glass. There was something charming about the whole thing. Eventually, a chunk of leaves plopped (ploved?) into my glass, and the stream roared out strong and clear. We applauded.

The couple next to us were Iranian and spoke no English or Azeri. They were able to order lamb anyway. A wealthy couple next to them ordered something that looked like Devil's Tower in Wyoming made of bones and rice.

Paid and got out of there. The decor made me want a saddle bag to hang on the wall and put magazines in. I just might do it! Retraced our steps in the dark. The sidewalks are treacherous with many sudden pitfalls. Got some water and got to the funicular station that was intended to take us back up the hill to where we lived.

But it was closed. No fun. No funicular. It was near a fountain of what I think is St. George but looks a little bit more like a Dentist for Dragons. Took some pictures and climbed some stairs.

                                                

The towers were all lit up like a Tokyo whorehouse. Strange LED lights making strange animations. A stick figure waving the national flag, water pouring in and out, flickering flames.We passed a cute little coffee house with chairs shaped like mugs a'spill.

And then we climbed and climbed some more. We may still be on those stairs. Time lost all meaning, oxygen got thin, condensation formed around us in cloud-like shapes of exhaustion. But reach the top, we did. Where our reward was... more stairs.

Further up we climbed. The way grew dark, the path overgrown. The stairs became dirt, the dirt became a path, and the path led home. At the little kitten box, their father had replaced their mother on guard duty. We decided the mother had the right idea, so we emulated her by curling up and passing out.

In the morning, it would be time to explore for real. Tomorrow was going to count!