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.
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.
