Just as you never fully know a person, a subject or yourself, you never grasp Istanbul in its entirety; it’s too big, too complex and too dynamic. All you can do is your best to find your place within it and then try to appreciate and make sense of it from there.
If you ever find yourself bored in Istanbul, it’s not Istanbul’s fault. Simply opening the window offers more sensory stimulation than a stroll through most city centers. Just listen to that eskici, just watch that fight, just smell that köfte smoking on the sidewalk-grill.
However often you may be alone here, it’s tough to feel lonely for too long. Sometimes an ‘oturabilir miyim?’ and ‘afiyet olsun’ from a stranger in a lokanta is all it takes to pull you through. Istanbul has a way of constantly reminding you that we’re all in this together.
Watching the endless stream of passing people never gets old–the faces, expressions, temperaments, styles and stories–where is everyone coming from, and where are they going? If only you could sit with each one for a single çay so as to get a better glimpse into their lives.
If people aren’t your priority, the street cats and dogs will never let you down. They’re all around, just as much a part of the city’s population as anyone else–strolling through traffic, sleeping on rooftops and in medians, and seeking, like all of us, food and affection.
After months of intense street protests, a string of terrorist attacks, a coup attempt, the countless occasions you’ve almost been run-over by a motorbike and the time that a loose brick fell from above and nearly ended it all, not a whole lot phases you anymore.
You don’t plan on living in Istanbul forever–because of crowds, traffic, the economy and the lack of nature–nor do you have any intention of moving elsewhere, because, whether you like it or not, the soul of the city’s seduced you.
You notice sometimes that all of your fellow ex-pats are quite eccentric–why have they been here so long? What are they really up to? Where were they even from, again? And then you realize that you must be at least as strange as they are.
Though a lot of serious, globally important events have unfolded while you’ve been here, the years, in a sense, have passed as a succession of simple pleasures–a ferry-ride at dusk, a breakfast with friends, a snow storm, a street musician, a spontaneous fireworks display.
No matter how many times you ride the Metrobüs, and how many times the same exact thing happens, you’ll always be shocked and stupefied by the wall of people who, so eager to get on, prevent you from getting off and thus leave all involved parties at a mind-boggling stand-still.
You’ve become fascinated by birds–seagulls, pigeons, doves and crows–their lives above the hectic commotion of the city, their ability to launch off of a terrace perch and coast through the sky, and yet their binding need to return to the earth in search of sustenance.
You vaguely remember having had a car once, but don’t much miss it. Sure, the freedom of the open road could be liberating, but it mostly just made you lazy. It’s good to walk down those 5 flights of stairs and around the corner just to pick up a loaf of bread.
You’d initially noticed each and every ezan and would often enjoy its unique, auditory reminder that you were far from home, but at some point you stopped consciously hearing it, other than the early morning one after a sleepless night.
You have moments, when you’re stuck in rush-hour traffic in a crammed and airless mini-bus and it’s cold and gray and rainy and every face and body around you is beat, when you question not only your Istanbul residence, but your entire earthly existence.
To truly see and feel the city, you’ve got to walk it. A single street contains a whole universe of sensations and social relations only a fraction of which you may perceive at a single glance. Walking is the only way, and yet even on foot some essential thing will inevitably be missed.
There are certain culinary pairings that never cease to please, and are just not the same when separated–çay-kahvaltı, bal-kaymak, pide-ayran, peynir-kavun, köfte-patates, bira-çerez, mercimek-limon, mantı-yoğurt, balık-ekmek, rakı-meze and on and on and on.
While some cities and societies encourage concealment, Istanbul allows you to suffer and rejoice right there in the street–people cry and fight, laugh and embrace–and there’s simply no need (or space) to hide away whatever you may be feeling in the moment.
You become aware that, no matter how proficient you may be in the language, how many people you meet and experiences you accrue, books you read and tours you take, you’ll only ever just scratch the surface of this profound place.
Whether from a bench, watching it move and turn in the sun for hours, gliding across it on a ferry at dusk, catching a quick glimpse of its green and blue flickering waves from the bridge, or dipping your feet into it on a hot, summer day, the soulful beauty of the Bosphorus never fades.
In a city that’s always in flux–where time seems both to stand still and flash past–you’re forever faced with the fact that one unknown day all of this will be over and all you can do, right here and now, is get down to whatever it is you most urgently must.
Images courtesy of the author.
