Istanbul nights

An excerpt from "Istanbul Nights"

- by Bikem Ekberzade

For text only

In our hired cab, we follow the smooth traffic of Yildiz as we skirt around Dolmabahce Palace and climb up Gumussuyu. Cihangir is in mayhem. Istiklal street, the infamous pedestrian street of Beyoglu is in a black-out. The conservative municipality wishes it so but we find what we are looking for in the alleys branching off from the cobble-stone road.

Hayal Kahvesi, or "Cafe of Dreams" in Beyoglu.

Some are selling fresh stuffed muscles with lemon juice - they have arranged the muscles in layers, in a semi-circle, with the cut-up half lemon taking center stage on the stall. The buffets have spread their platics chairs to the outer eschelons of the fluorescent light coming from inside. Conversation ensues in Istanbul.

We first stop off at Hayal Kahvesi, or "Cafe of Dreams" and have a few pints, a little jazz, then head off to Cicek Pasaji. An old flower market, Cicek Pasaji has been converted into a night stop of drinks, food and belly dancing. Our conversation has thinned out by now, stomachs gurgling with after-beer-hunger. It is past midnight when Friday turns into Saturday, but the flower market is empty!

Fresh, stuffed muscles are an all time delicacy in Istanbul.

Flourescent lights from buffets light up the sidewalks in Istiklal Caddesi, currently under black out due to government regulations.

A restaurant owner approaches us and almost whispers in the unusual quiet of the closed market, "July heat," he says -- apologetic that he couldn't entertain us. As if to support his theory, the kids in Taksim Square start a diving race. Off they jump, one after another, into the shallow waters of the fountain. When they see the camera, they rush out of water, beckoning their friends to join them. Before we realize what is going on, we have a wet wall of juvenile bodies in front of us, posing and prompting us to take their pictures. We comply.

Cicek Pasaji, an old flower market converted into a mall for eateries is a popular place to get fod, drinks set against a background of live Romani music.

In July heat children of all ages take refuge in the cool, shallow waters of Taksim Square's only fountain.

A few yards away, despite the cheers of the children, we hear the few broken notes of a sad folk song. We follow the music along the parquet road, to the corner. There sits a bard, his fingers loosely wandering on the strings of his lute. He doesn't seem aware of the people passing him by, or the few who are standing around him. His eyes are closed as he tells his story, to his faceless listeners.

We take a cab to Ortakoy. Our excuse is to find a place to eat. But the human traffic temporarily takes our minds off our empty stomachs. Instead, we answer the call of the City and wander in and out of its many streets with the mob, taking the lead, its many faces changing constantly. We visit its many bars, ending up beside a mosque, along the Bosphorus. One of us does what can not be undone, he looks at his watch, and declares, "it is 3 o'clock in the morning." We still have to eat. So we vote: baked potates, gyro, rolls, tripe soup, or... "Fish," we decide in unison. "Kumkapi!" suggests another. So we head for the kingdom of fishermen, hidden underneath the ancient fortress walls of the old city.

In Kumkapi, along the narrow street lined with restaurants on either side, the tables have been undone. The workers from the restaurants have gathered around the small fountain up the road, talking, smoking cigarettes. They see us approaching, and welcome us into conversation. When we inquire about food, they laugh, and send a boy of 10, may be 12 years, to fetch us what is left of the night's menu. In a few minutes, a table with a brightly bleached white sheet is set. Food, fresh and steaming hot is brought from the kitchen as we give ourselves in to the conversation, still unbroken despite our intrusion. One of the workers brings out an old violin, and starts to play. The music breaks the hot, still night, travels among the half finished raki bottles, and leaves the laughter filled alley for the cool waters of the Bosphorus...

In the early hours of the morning violin and a five string lute proves to be a welcome companion to a table of empty dishes and almost empty bottles (L) as dawn shows its first light along the Bosphorus.

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