Layers

Hello Stranger,

The Grand Bazaar of Istanbul seems endless. There are more human bodies occupying every floor tile of the fragile building than the London tube during rush hour. Daylight is not welcome in. The traders have covered with rugs every hole in the ceiling that might give access to the stern eye of the sun. It may be a bright morning outside, but inside only the deceiving hand of darkness rules. Never-ending lanes of cashmere scarves, polished cezves, gem stones, spices rush into the periphery of my vision. Tapestry and engravings dance along the wall linings, making the bazaar’s labyrinth more elaborate and enchanting. 

The Grand Bazaar, Istanbul

The sticky air is pressing my shirt tight to my breast. Drop of swear are running down my back and my head is spinning. It’s like all these thousand voices, footsteps, colours have created the perfect voodoo song. A rhythmical chant is arising from the clinging of lamps, the rustle of gems, the gasps of bodies pushing to make way through. I am surrendering to the warm beat, floating slowly with it through the halls. And tugged in the sleeves of the bazaar’s garment, the adventure continues right to the shores of Bosporus. You can’t find a way out by yourself. You have to close eyes and stretch out a hand to the crowd. It will lead you eventually to a spot from where you can see the way home. Only by the time you turn your back, the chaos will have already swallowed the gate to this mystical world.

The Grand Bazaar, Istanbul

Nothing in Istanbul is simply what it seems. Looks on people, buildings, even the hour of the day are deceiving. If you really want to see its true face, you have to dig below the layers. And the city has so many of them. You enter a building that looks like a chic Victorian house, but the 3 flights of narrow stairs invite you into a living room, which has accommodated a stage of a funky Turkish band and a few guests. You follow a noise coming from a nearby garden and you find a dozen of colourful lamps and among them the silhouettes of another twenty something people chatting energetically. Shy side lanes, living in the shadow of the shopping streets' glamour, expose the intriguing life of local men. In the dim light of the corners, they are playing tavla, drinking tea, smoking excessively and throwing lustful glances at the seductively bare legs of female passers-by.

I’ve fallen deep into the layers of oriental mystery and I’m literary devouring every minute spent with the eclectic persona of Istanbul. But after walking for 8 hours straight, I can hardly make another step. I am completely exhausted. Only the city doesn't have the intention to put its body to rest. Even at 11 pm the streets are completely packed. Istanbul’s thirst for attention and novelty is unquenched and it lures strangers to this devilish game far into the most discreet hours of the night. 

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Please note: All articles and photographs contained here are property of © Gypsy Letters, 2014 unless otherwise noted. No part of this website may be reproduced without the explicit permission of the copyright holder.

The Gate to Orient

Hello Stranger,

I arrived in Istanbul. The city is a big déjà vu for me. It has the face and spirit of Sofia, the sticky air of Bangkok, the mystical story of Granada, the cheeky mentality of the Middle East. The slim figures of two minarets are the first thing I see from the window of the plane. Then the shadows of dozens of ships follow, melting quietly into the water of Bosporus.  My eyes have barely adjusted to the amount of light. And with the landing, I feel like rolling out of a vacuum - face down onto a carpet in the center of a busy bazaar. Thousands of feet are rushing in all directions, signs for “Baggage claim” hang randomly on walls and the passport control area looks like a wild jungle – 8 lines of twisted postures move nervously, hardly awake enough to stand. People are checking watches and moaning like hungry tigers. We all need about 30 minutes to get our small share of the clerks’ attention. Mine looks at me indifferently. He’s on the phone, yet that doesn't disturb his passport stamping routine. I grab my papers and I just say to myself: ‘Welcome to Orient!’

  

Morning buzz, Istanbul

I’ve hardly stepped out of the exit door and a few elderly men jump at me with offers for a cab fare. I know the drill. They are not regular cab drivers, but they are good for a bargain, so I pick one that gives me a decent price and follow him to his car. It’s parked outside the parking area of the airport, at safe distance from the officials, which instead of giving him a fine will simply ask for a small bribe or might even give him a beating. The guy is nice. He tells me his name and what he does. He actually works for the Post Office, but outside his regular hours he’s transporting tourists to help pay for the university fees of his 2 children. Their pictures are exhibited prominently on the car’s deck. I look around the white Skoda. It’s almost factory-clean and the cabbie is dressed in a chic jacket and nice dark brown shoes, not the cab driver attire I would have expected. It’s a false assumption of course. In Turkey what you wear, what you drive, how big your TV is and what phone you use, are quite important social status factors. I used to hate these status indicators; they are pretty similar where I come from. But the easiness of the familiarity right now makes me feel home. I am content that I can navigate in this insecure chaos, which scares many others.

40 long minutes follow through the lunch traffic of Istanbul. We drive on the highway next to buses, which have probably been manufactured in Russia in the 50s and then also next to the latest Audi’s sports car editions. We are not exactly driving straight on the designated lanes. We cut other drivers by speeding right to that killing point and then stopping abruptly at annoying traffic lights that have suddenly sprung out of nowhere. We use the emergency section to secure a faster pass through tunnels and narrow sections. We jump through curbs and yell at surprised pedestrians daring to use the crosswalk to trespass. The hustle of the streets is a complete contradiction to the sudden appearance of the old Constantinople fortress – proud and beautiful, like a crown jewel upon the riverbed. I can see bits of the defense wall. How many battles from my history books I’ve imagined being fought here… I can see Aye Sofia, which is probably the one centuries-old witness of glory, massacre, victory and fall – a former basilica, a former mosque, a former symbol of power worshiped by kings from Bulgaria, Byzantium, the Osman Empire. I can almost hear the whispers of the Christian and Muslim preachers, who have given their lives for their faith, wander between the stones. I can feel the gentle steps of thousand cats, deviously guarding the sanctuaries, like untouchable godly protectors.

The Cool Cat & the City, Istanbul

A sea gull is gliding onto the warm air above the Golden Horn. A soft wind is flirting with the red mane of a big Turkish flag. The car is cutting through the rattling heartbeat of the city and I am falling deep into my infatuation, deep into the anticipation to get lost in the streets of Istanbul.

Istanbul at Sunset

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Please note: All articles and photographs contained here are property of © Gypsy Letters, 2014 unless otherwise noted. No part of this website may be reproduced without the explicit permission of the copyright holder.