Marmara on my mind

My Converse are slowly falling apart. That's what you get for buying fake ones on a crowded chaotic bazar in Eminönü in the shade of a dozen different minaret-towers. They are everywhere, and be sure none of them are the real deal. Only cell phone cases outnumber them by far, filling the walls of every second shop, a kaleidoscope of lifeless plastic shells, prestigious status symbols for a generation controlled by the constant urge to define themselves by brands and the latest technology.

Day after day, fighting the battle to be the coolest, the hippest, the one everyone else is looking up to. A neverending waste of time and energy, establishing exceptations they won't ever satisfactorily meet.

Istanbul is a peculiar place to be, a metropolis of contradictions, a melting pot of culture, religion, history, geography, art and politics, struggling to do justice to the numerous expectations and demands of its 14 million residents. Walk the streets at any given time of the day (or night, as I have noticed); you won't be alone. The Turks pratically live on the streets and in the thousand little cafes and shops all over town regardless of the time. It's wonderful. Unless you're in a misanthropic kind of mood, in which case Istanbul must be hell on earth.

They all speak English. Most of them German. Of course they do. Since each and every shopkeeper apparently has a brother, uncle or cousin in Germany that has lived for a while in your hometown, of all places. Of course they did. At least on the European side of Istanbul. Crossing the Galata bridge, lined day by day by hundreds of fishermen whose fishing rods are as much of a landmark in Istanbul as the Hagia Sophia itself, you slowly walk your way up the steep hill to get to the pier and jump on one of the countless ferries that take you from Europe to Asia. Isn't it bizarre? It sounds so damn cosmopolitan, crossing from one continent to the other by boat, maybe twice a day, for groceries or a simple shopping trip to the Istiklal, Istanbul's famous shopping Avenue. Twenty minutes. The Bosporus a shorttrack, a welcome cooling in the heat of the deep canyons that characterize Istanbul's asphalt jungle. An ever crowded bottleneck between the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmara, name sake of the word 'marble' or 'Marmor' in German. Bless the Romans, they surely knew where to get the good stuff.

And before the blink of an eye you're in Asia, or rather in a place you might have expected and hoped or prayed for after the usual madness on the European side. Turkey without the masses of international tourists, without oriental bazaars full of useless souvenirs or countless Nazar Boncuk, the Turkish Eye every single bloody tourist desperately pins on his backpack to show off that he has indeed been to Turkey. Or their limited understanding of what turkish culture and lifestyle actually means.

Unexpectedly I stumble upon a group of local folklore street musicians that get the catchiest rhythm I've heard in a long time out of their instruments; jingle rings, handdrums, a turkish bagpipe, everything you believe turkish folk music should be like. A group of students starts dancing, taking their hands as they do in Greece when dancing the Sirtaki, shouting, singing, smiling. A middle aged business man enters the scene, drops his jacket, joins the dancers, claps his hands to the beat and suddenly does a somersault. A fucking somersault! On the street. Let me get this straight, I am not kidding, cross my heart. I didn't know whether to keep staring in utter disbelief or rather start smiling like a madmen on account of the sheer absurdity I just witnessed. What a crazy beautiful city it is.

Suddenly you need your bare hands and feet to bargain with the shopkeepers, as none of them speaks neither German nor English. What a blessing. It took me about thirty minutes to explain the nice old man who sold handmade leather bean bags that I wanted just the seatcover without the filling, as I had to take it on the plane with me. Have you ever been trying to mimick a plane on a crowded turkish street full of suspicous looking housewifes and easily amused kids? You feel like a damn idiot. In a good way though. Describing the desired color turned out to be my statutory audit in mime bargaining. Proving that even speaking four languages is not the key to being a successful globetrotter.

Grün. Green. Vert. Verde.... Sigh.

The old man simply makes a call and orders some black tea for us. As they all do for you. I drank more tea during that one week in Istanbul than during the entire last year at home. Hell, I don't even like tea that much. It's Hospitality. The Turks must absorb it with their mother's milk. And you gladly aceept it, as every tiny glas of tea offers you another chance to get to know a local, to talk about life in Istanbul, about censorship in Turkey, about your whereabouts, about life in general. Two minds from different countries and cultural backgrounds happily exchanging words of kindness and wisdom, glad to end the day with an extended knowledge and the awareness that you both did benefit from it, no matter to what extent.

Tea is one thing you can't walk away from, cats are the other. Istanbul's hidden heroes are everywhere. It's hard not to bend down to pet each and every one of them, as they all persistenly circle around your legs, eager to receive some loving care. Nuzzling their head against your palm, purring, waiting to be scratched on that special spot right behind the ears. I could have taken them all home with me. The little tabby next to the Masumiyet Müzesi (Museum of Innocence) being my favourite one. The quarter has a typical Parisienne charme, flower boxes on every window, artistically crafted ironworks seperating the buildings and miniature backyards from one another. The well too known accordion melody everyone associates with France comes to my mind. So clear, so beautiful. Until I turn around the corner to find a turkish teenage boy with an accordion sitting on the steps of the museum, his eyes closed, lovingly playing exactly the one melody I had just been thinking about. Talking about coincedence... I doubt it.

It's the only museum worldwide that's based on a novel, which actually goes by the same name as the museum itself: Masumiyet Müzesi by Orhan Pamuk. As unimpressive as the crimson three story building may look from the outside, the second you enter the building and allow yourself to be absorbed by the unreal yet fascinating atmosphere, you can hardly get your eyes off the carefully arranged displays, artifacts of the tragic semi autobiographical love story Pamuk recounts in his novel. A wall of one thousand neatly pinned down lipstick-covered cigarette butts sorted by year. Letters, video installations, photographs, dioramas. A portray of a city. A melancholic portray of what Istanbul used to be like. A sad city, a poor city, an abandoned city that still carried a natural beauty. It's been a year and I still haven't gotten around to finally read the book. If it impresses me only half as much as the exhibition did I might be in for a real gem.

Byzantium, Constantinople, Istanbul. City of contrasts. In every possible way. Why do my reflections revolve around it so much lately? About nights being spend in Istanbul's countless rustic rooftop bars, smoking shishas while gazing at the full moon being reflected on the dark surface of the Bosporus. Nostalgia? The absent feeling of falling in love with something intriguing you can't fully understand at first but value now?

I don't know.