With apologies to the great Ray Davies...!
Up to Taksim, down Istiklal, turn off into the back streets of Beyoglu and through to Faik Pasa St where I am looking at some apartments for rent. It's a lovely street, windy, ramshackle and in need of a lick of paint in parts... Crammed full of antique shops and bric a brac, and an art gallery lifting the sophistication a little. Crammed full of character too.
I could live in this street. It's not the place I have my heart set on - that apartment isn't free for a while - but I might well take somewhere here until my dream apartment in Galata is free.
Wandering through Tomtom past the elegant Italian Ambassador's residence (OF COURSE the Italian Ambassador's residence is elegant!) and up a narrow laneway past the Dutch Embassy and on to Istiklal again - Las Ramblas of Istanbul...
An instinctive turn off Istiklal towards the Pera side and I wander through the laneways weaving a pattern through the charming buildings of Beyoglu resplendent in their neoclassical grandeur - some polished and proud, some faded and forlorn - but all reminding one of the glorious past.
Galip Dede is the Tin Pan Alley, the West 48th Street of Istanbul...packed with music stores selling guitars, baglama (traditional Turkish - and Greek - folk instrument), and all manner of drums, timpany and assorted other sound making devices. Heaven.
The sun is out and so are the smiling, happy people of Istanbul. Colourful clothes contrast with the colourful backdrops of the street and birdsong mixes with distant Byzantine scales, fruit vendors shouting their offers and the general hubbub of the street...
I have worked up a thirst so I stop at an eaterie in the shadow of Galata Kulesi (Galata Tower) and quickly drown several cold beers. Refreshed in terms of thirst I turn to the hunger part of the equation...
Fresh lahmacun - a kind of Turkish meat pizza served with some freshly shredded lettuce and lemon juice - is accompanied by haydari - a thick strained yoghurt laced with garlic and fennel and a plate of ezme salad - tomatoes pulped with spicy peppers, onion and olive oil with plenty of kick. Mopping up with delicious fresh bread that is doughy and chewy and almost a meal in itself.
In a nearby music store the proprietor plays baglamas through an amplifier and the sound of the Anatolian spirit that haunts the music from Greece to Central Asia and works to a Byzantine scale wafts across the square and provides the perfect accompaniment to my meal.
Oh how blessed I am to be able to have these moments of pure and utter contentment and joy. My heaven is perhaps someone else's hell - but I am able to taste this joy with comparative regularity and that is a true blessing.
And now I'm ready to head for the airport, my lungs filled with Istanbul, my eyes excited by her sights, by ears intoxicated by her sounds and my soul tantalised by her possibilities. My heart torn between the sadness of departure and the longing for return.
Who could not be inspired by Istanbul - for it is both inspired and inspirational.
Until the next time dear city. . . Until the next time.
Showing posts with label strolling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label strolling. Show all posts
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Friday, June 5, 2009
Venice Biennale #3 - Strolling...the lost art of...
Venice is a city that absolutely lends itself to the lost art of strolling.
The dictionary definition is as follows:
To stroll : to walk in a leisurely or idle manner
To my way of thinking there are some additional inflections to "strolling" that are important when qualifying exactly what one means by strolling...
First: there must be no discernible point or objective to the walk other than the walk itself. It is not about a destination or purpose.
Second: the stroll is contextualised by its environment and thus the environment conditions the stroll and characterises it. It might also dictate pace, length and direction but only in an unplanned fashion.
Third: when the stroll turns into a walk or a journey it is time to stop as it is, by definition, no longer a stroll.
So with this mind - or at least later to be recalled and noted - I set off from my hotel for a stroll. I took my camera as it would be remiss of me not to capture one or two aspects of Venice - although this should not be confused with the purpose of the stroll, but instead a by-product.
My eye was looking for shadow. For "chiaroscuro" to punctuate the mystery and majesty of Venice.
My feet took me towards the Rialto bridge but with some effort made to avoid the main lanes crammed full of enthusiastic and chattering tourists. Far From The Maddening Crowds (with apologies to Thomas Hardy)
Mine were the blind alleys and narrow paths, the slight bridges and low roofed "sottoportegi" that at night might be slightly unnerving but that by day provide visual nourishment and mental stimulation - not to mention the odd photograph.
Sometimes I wish I could record or film my strolls - but then the smells and glances would still escape me and thus frustrate further, so memory and imagination suffice.
An old gentleman on a small bridge tells an African street boy where he can find free food. The boy doesn't understand, so the gentleman keeps repeating in Italian, slower and louder each time. Then he has a brain wave and writes the address and area on a piece of paper - pointing to the direction. The boy - who wears a giant, almost comical sized crucifix - nods and smiles. The gentleman smiles and leaves. The boy wanders off in the opposite direction to which the gentleman indicated. An old lady watches silently, half hidden, from a window above the narrow canal.
A run down pizzeria sets up for lunch in a small out of the way square. Jazz plays quietly and the notes waft across the street. Brightly coloured chrysanthemums fill window boxes and their petals flutter very slightly to the jazz notes or perhaps it is the breeze...
Narrow laneway in full shadow is navigated slowly by an old lady with two canes and thick spectacles. She mutters to herself unintelligibly but with some evident frustration and continues slowly on her way. I encounter her 20 minutes later in a cul de sac still muttering and seeming not to register me or recall me.
Young tourists - probably lovers - pass me in an old tiny square in a hidden alley, giggling, smiling, high on romance and adventure. I turn a corner to find a brass door belonging to the home of a painter - his name carefully embossed above his profession and surrounded by decorative stamps. Below is appended a scruffy hand written note explaining where his work can be seen...a lovely contrast.
An accidental press of the shutter button by the market in Rialto produces the best shot of the day. I contemplate buying a copy of Il Corriere Della Sera to brush up on my Italian as I hear an old man request the same journal from a news stand. I decide against it and head to an old trattoria "alla Madonna" to meet with Cesare for lunch.
I drink cold beer and review my snaps and recall the best moments of my stroll, writing some of them down here...
A beautiful hour.
The dictionary definition is as follows:
To stroll : to walk in a leisurely or idle manner
To my way of thinking there are some additional inflections to "strolling" that are important when qualifying exactly what one means by strolling...
First: there must be no discernible point or objective to the walk other than the walk itself. It is not about a destination or purpose.
Second: the stroll is contextualised by its environment and thus the environment conditions the stroll and characterises it. It might also dictate pace, length and direction but only in an unplanned fashion.
Third: when the stroll turns into a walk or a journey it is time to stop as it is, by definition, no longer a stroll.
So with this mind - or at least later to be recalled and noted - I set off from my hotel for a stroll. I took my camera as it would be remiss of me not to capture one or two aspects of Venice - although this should not be confused with the purpose of the stroll, but instead a by-product.
My eye was looking for shadow. For "chiaroscuro" to punctuate the mystery and majesty of Venice.
My feet took me towards the Rialto bridge but with some effort made to avoid the main lanes crammed full of enthusiastic and chattering tourists. Far From The Maddening Crowds (with apologies to Thomas Hardy)
Mine were the blind alleys and narrow paths, the slight bridges and low roofed "sottoportegi" that at night might be slightly unnerving but that by day provide visual nourishment and mental stimulation - not to mention the odd photograph.
Sometimes I wish I could record or film my strolls - but then the smells and glances would still escape me and thus frustrate further, so memory and imagination suffice.
An old gentleman on a small bridge tells an African street boy where he can find free food. The boy doesn't understand, so the gentleman keeps repeating in Italian, slower and louder each time. Then he has a brain wave and writes the address and area on a piece of paper - pointing to the direction. The boy - who wears a giant, almost comical sized crucifix - nods and smiles. The gentleman smiles and leaves. The boy wanders off in the opposite direction to which the gentleman indicated. An old lady watches silently, half hidden, from a window above the narrow canal.
A run down pizzeria sets up for lunch in a small out of the way square. Jazz plays quietly and the notes waft across the street. Brightly coloured chrysanthemums fill window boxes and their petals flutter very slightly to the jazz notes or perhaps it is the breeze...
Narrow laneway in full shadow is navigated slowly by an old lady with two canes and thick spectacles. She mutters to herself unintelligibly but with some evident frustration and continues slowly on her way. I encounter her 20 minutes later in a cul de sac still muttering and seeming not to register me or recall me.
Young tourists - probably lovers - pass me in an old tiny square in a hidden alley, giggling, smiling, high on romance and adventure. I turn a corner to find a brass door belonging to the home of a painter - his name carefully embossed above his profession and surrounded by decorative stamps. Below is appended a scruffy hand written note explaining where his work can be seen...a lovely contrast.
An accidental press of the shutter button by the market in Rialto produces the best shot of the day. I contemplate buying a copy of Il Corriere Della Sera to brush up on my Italian as I hear an old man request the same journal from a news stand. I decide against it and head to an old trattoria "alla Madonna" to meet with Cesare for lunch.
I drink cold beer and review my snaps and recall the best moments of my stroll, writing some of them down here...
A beautiful hour.
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