Using a bit of internet resourcefulness and a great deal of on the ground detective work, after two weeks of couch surfing I have officially taken up residence here in the great city of Istanbul. I am just one more immigrant washing up on the shores of time, history and collective memory of this throbbing mega metropolis.
If the city herself does not as yet know that I have arrived, surely my new street has meet my presence with a cautious, curious, welcoming eye. In the heart of Istanbul, in the district of Tophane, the street is a dizzying mix of Turks, Kurds and Gypsies a short walk from the Bosphorus Straight. Tophane in Turkish actually means cannonball foundry (or literally house of the cannonball) and is a reference to the defensive cannonball foundry which was constructed by one of the first Ottoman Sultans in the late 15th century and until today looms large over the neighborhood.
Fortunately these days, enemies of the great city are few and far between and large maritime attacks are no longer en vogue. All that remains are the massive cruise ships which make Istanbul their port of call. Once docked along the quay these cruise ships dwarf the exquisitely constructed mosques that line the Bosphorus and blot out the view to Anatolia, the Asian side of the city. They are indeed that big and thus offer a perversely delicious broadside for an errant, if anachronistic cannonball.
Yet the foundry of Tophane remains silent. Forlorn and brooding, as if there is still a chip on her should, yearning for one more opportunity to lash out and show her bygone Ottoman greatness and potency.
With the neighborhood thoroughly protected, let’s go to the street. Picture scenes from the Godfather, when a young Don Corleone is living in the immigrant tenement neighborhoods of New York City in the early 20th century.
Here is the Turkish version. Four and five stories turn of the century apartment buildings line a narrow, winding street where all windows are open, freshly washed laundry hangs across and every imaginable family member leans out partaking in a daily conversation that must be centuries old.
Family life explodes across every available surface and space as women lower baskets from fourth story windows to haggle and purchase fresh produce from the passing vendor in the streets. Simultaneously cacophonous and melodic, there is an urban Turkish melody that is created. Drifting upwards towards the sky in jabs, rises and lulls the collective speech of the street offers an exotic rendition of an otherwise mundane Turkish daily life.
Having three large windows of my own facing the street, I duly plan to take up my place in the window and join in the Turkish chatter. A basket and rope are on the list of provisions to buy. It will be quite a linguistic challenge to haggle effectively with a man two stories down without receiving bruised tomatoes or incorrect change.
Unlike the young Don Corleone, I do not foresee any roof top escapades but rather my main concern will be to see if I can secure a wireless Internet connection in this throwback of an Ottoman neighborhood.
Do write to the address above. Your mail is always much appreciated and we shall see just how nimble the Turkish post can be. Perhaps you could send it via Carnival Cruise Lines; they are here three times a week
