here. The noise sound if you only watch. I know you're catapulted thousands of miles from home, voluntarily transferred from ship to train to bus to taxi, and then delivered as a package dented your destiny, but you should strive not to blow it to hell. The Turkish Republic is located exactly to your feet, as a vast area of \u200b\u200btension, mountains, deserts and happiness. The language, this talk about music whose handwriting and sentence structure have been set and imposed by decree from the Father of the Turks, Mustafa Kemal, and whose words emerge from centuries of trade between Arab, Persian and Ottoman empires, the language in which you are immersed, You have to learn. And you have to start now. As the old saying goes turkish: "Su Akar yatağını bulur", the water is running its course. So, it starts to flow. Only by adapting your being in and out, absorbing and making you absorb, you can be you, yourself a new, yet unknown, which is slowly, over time it takes to learn a new language. Let yourself go and get strong, open and look, flow.
As the boats in the Bosporus. An endless procession of pilgrims water, all made and measures, as fast as the load or orders requiring, bound for ports or the oceans. Every time he cast his eyes on this strip of sea between two continents remains impressed by the crowd that plows. A small boat fishing tackles huge oil tankers, to provide fish for his family of Fathi. Swaying slowly against the current of the Bosporus, a short stretch Turkish flag in the wind, a few tools of the trade and the look that far from the coast peers. Barely half a kilometer, the commercial port of Istanbul, near Kadikoy, is in full swing. The mechanical arms sorting 200-ton container, filled with Chinese goods. The wound of the port here is a glimpse of where they spend fortunes and empires. Right from the beginning dock hundreds of stories, and watch as the boat takes me to happen to Kabatas, still dazed and foreign.
Turn Istanbul only makes you feel insignificant. And powerful. The entire town conspires to make you lose, making it appear that you're managing the game. Everything passes through here. It overwhelms you. The irreconcilable contradiction is a sign of life in Istanbul. From Taxim Square, one of the squares of the most important and popular part European part of Istiklal Caddesi, the pedestrian street of the richest, with great brands, major hotels, fine and warm center of the economy, and junk food. Sometimes it's so crowded that you do not walk, you lead others. The low tables of the narrow side streets have more space between Cay, beer and Tavla. There are times when you see so many faces that you believe to be the center of something big, and all we're waiting, read it in the eye, is about to happen. But then the wheel keeps turning, people change, and the crowd left, the musicians never cease to complain of absences or singing heroes, money flying from wrinkled pockets pockets, water still bubbles to other Cay, and you can see meat guzzling models half-naked women and veiled. It 's a long Istiklal street, and at every point is a microcosm of learning: there are the sellers of lottery tickets, turkish lot, next to those toasts corn and sells donuts, a bank there, two feet away a restaurant shows pounds of bloody meat to the delight of patrons. The very different lives that intersect in the walk, you can see them spinning as colored lines, each following its course, guided by his faith, sacred or profane. Some faces will not go unnoticed, and it is not beauty. From the light in your eyes recognize the wily pickpocket sniffing passers-by, but can only imagine her booty. There cops are every hundred yards, cautious and stringent, to ensure on unsuspecting tourists drunk buyers. I know that thieves have come a long way, their homes are nearby, but no one pays them a visit. Two hundred yards, that's all, and you find yourself in another world. Just take one of the side streets to the right if you come from Taxim Square, and after a maze of narrow streets, you see an unusual scene. Clothes hung out to dry on a wire stretched between two buildings, I was not even a fork, a clear sign of the presence of Gypsies and other ethnic groups, other habits. Tarlabasi, via the depths of the people living in the light.
runs parallel to Istiklal but his sister seems cursed. Old Ottoman houses, now falling, look out over an anthill dirty and disreputable, where you hear other languages \u200b\u200band see other faces. Here also is a center of small and large economy, but different type. Nothing makes many tricks. And drugs and weapons, if you want to party with anyone here have what you need. But, of course, see to go there with a good model of the place and your face bad or prepared to smile at rowdy boys, and between a ball and chewing gum are attracted to, rare newcomers. What's underneath you see if you are ready to recognize it, without finding slanders which only has poverty, but in the wake of trade and transitions between the real masters, confused in the neighborhood. There is a diverse humanity Tarlabasi in here many Kurdish families have fled, especially after the terrible attack of the early nineties turkish army in the east, where entire villages were destroyed. There are the Roma, Gypsies, for so long that they have forgotten from where they started. And Armenians and Greeks, the ancient inhabitants of the district, now in the minority, after the bulk has fled the country during the Turkish pogroms of the early twentieth century. Even today, the wretched humanity that comes to Istanbul, passing through Tarlabasi. And there's always room between the houses deserted and shops closed, waiting for new inhabitants. You walk and you wonder how you can always see Istiklal linda despite the density of people and their waste, while in the trash Tarlabasi mildew for days. Why not go here once a month that the garbage collectors? And because the renovations were done the last time when Turkey was a sultanate? The open sewers are difficult to live with a stench. In fact, the administration plans to "clean up" this road, build new homes, and to dislodge the squatters. In short, make it attractive to foreign buyers, to make a twin of Istiklal. Try to eliminate some contradictions may seem noble, but what about the old people? Maybe he sent them into huge, anonymous suburbs of Istanbul, Secondigliano of the cube. Someone tells me that the degradation and the poverty of Tarlabasi took to confuse the police, shady deals and poor mixing, as long as they are inextricable there will be more freedom of movement. Go in a hovel of stairs and you'll find more money to 'AK bank. However it will be impossible to change anything until the best whores in Istanbul will be Tarlabasi. We happen to walk there. Turkish friends say there is only crap, but I see money move beyond the stench. Here is the dark side of sparkling windows and nights out with stunning women, there are hidden researchers who have risked too much and future bosses and murderers are born here, or we come to complete the training. The two sides of appearance, the other a wealthy criminal, are bound tight as a knot of torture. The two parallel roads, and Istiklal Tarlabasi, meet in a point, beyond the superficial difference. Under the shit is gold to someone. Another story to be excavated, yet another in this world that contains other very much.
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