Street beers in Galata

A Thursday night in Taksim. A group of us have just emerged (slightly deafer than before) from a grungy sort of rock bar - the type that has skulls and goblins painted on the walls. We all felt the need to be out in the open for a bit, so we bought beers and we walked. We walked and walked all the way down to the Galata Tower. On turning that final corner I could immediately see that this was the right place to be on a Thursday evening. Sprawled across the wide, cobbled steps were over a hundred people, enjoying the warmth of the night in the open air against the stunning backdrop of the Galata Tower, its yellow stones illuminated by spotlights.

We sat and drank and talked an laughed, and as the night unravelled we somehow got coerced into press-up competitions and arm wrestles with the group of Turks sitting next to us, we spoke to a man with a pet monkey who then charged us 5 TL for the privilege of petting it, and we joined a large circle of people doing the traditional Turkish dance to the tune of a violin-like instrument played by an ancient raisin of a man.

At one point I ambled a short way down the hill. After attempting a conversation in my (VERY) limited Turkish with the janitorof the public toilets, I stepped back out onto the hill and took a minute to take in the scene. The vast Galata Tower looked like something from a fairy-tale; the picturesque old buildings alongside it, shabby paintwork and wrought iron balconies; the crescent moon; the warmth; the Thursday night revellers on the steps; the sound of a violin cleaving through the shouts and the cries and the conversation. And I thought: this is what I'm here for.

A tempting offer

I walk into a shop and am quietly browsing. The shopkeeper is a staunch, balding man of about 45. Within three minutes he asks me to be his girlfriend. Shameless.

An image

An image. Something in that image has woven itself into the outer edges of my thoughts, imprinted itself there, returning again and again to the forefront of my mind.

I walked down the middle of the street, past the great iron eagle and towards the fish market. It was night time, the darkness lit by the street lights that hang tremulously from cables above our heads. And there was rain; full, heavy raindrops filling the air and making the streets gleam and shimmer. People everywhere, most with umbrellas and coats drawn close around them, walking at full speed towards the happy promise of warmth and shelter. There was one person who wasn't walking; she wasn't walking but crawling. She was crawling because she can't walk. She can't walk because her unshod feet are twisted and swollen and deformed into fleshy lumps of uselessness. She cleaves her path down the centre of that street. None of us stop. None of us look. Perhaps because we simply don't want to see. And yet my stomach leapt up into my throat when I saw that and now I see it all the time, in quiet moments, whether I want to or not.

Unexpected art

Istanbul is a city marked by art. Of course, there are the usual grandiose, slightly imposing galleries that you would expect to find in any metropolis, but the kind that I like the best is all of the little 'pockets' of art that nestle into the nooks and niches of the city, seeping into every unfilled crevice.

A couple of weeks ago I was walking with a friend in the sun and the cold, no particular destination in mind. On the small, steep street we saw a makeshift sign proclaiming in bold black lettering 'painting exhibition - don't be scared'. So we decided not to be scared, and obeyed the arrow directing us to duck under a corrugated iron roof into a sort of breeze-block shed. It was dark and dusty, and every inch of the walls were covered in colour; words and patterns graffitied over the greyness. We paused a second to admire this, and then took the narrow corridor that funnelled us into a small courtyard where there was a wooden door into the building it was attached to. And there was a man sitting on a low wooden stool surrounded by what looked to be his entire body of work. Stacks and stacks of paintings of the most engaging vibrancy were propped up against the wall, piled upon the the various tables and on the floor. The larger pieces were hung. Everywhere was colour and image, all the more awe-inspiring because of the unexpectedness of it. A city full of surprises.

Mojo Beǧolu

After work last night with a belly full of kőftȅ I metroed to Taksim and made my way down Istiklal, diving left into a dingy little alleyway lined with a few clusters of leering Turkish men. At the end of this alleyway is a basement bar called Mojo Beǧolu where one of my students, Bora, was playing a gig. His band played a well thought out combination of Turkish rock songs and English/American classics, all of which, to my ear, were perfect imitations of the originals. The band was communicative both within itself and with its adoring audience, and the energy didn't lag once throughout the entire two-hour set. A fun band. 

Bora's band finished their set and we finished our drinks with thoughts of going elsewhere. I went to the bathroom and by the time I came back out two minutes later the bar had emptied and the next band had started their set. And they were phenomenal. They were a six-piece band; guitar, vocals, drums, trumpet, trombone and bass. The lead singer had that raspy gravel to his voice that evokes images of the smoky, sexy dives of 1930s New Orleans. By that time there were perhaps about 7 people remaining in the bar, and yet the band never dropped pace and were clearly enjoying every second, not for the glory of the limelight, but for the sheer music. I couldn't help but feel a little indignant for them that they were playing at 1 in the morning, almost as an afterthought. An inspired afterthought nonetheless.