Friday 13th: Became from that of Savalon, but I’m flyin’ to Istanbul
I skate on the word tonight
Photo by me with Canon7D
The first thing I noticed, still on the plane, about Turkish people is how women have really well-kept hands. I am, after all, one of those people who really pay attention to other people’s hands; undoubtedly it has something to do with my occupation. It really struck me. Their nails are extremely groomed: polished, tidy, and lovely to look at. The fingers, as thin and tapered as pianists have them, appeared strong and determined. Most have tribal henna tattoos painted on them. I got lost thinking about how much care they put in their hands. Men too had clean, moisturised hands with neatly trimmed nails free from rough edges; perhaps it’s associated with the fact that Turks eat with their hands, or do they? Most of the people in my home country eat pizza with their hands too, but I wouldn’t say we put the same care into our hands. Not even close.
Without having paid for the “seat selection” I was randomly assigned to a spot next to two young French kids: 6-8 years old rough guess, brother and sister most likely. Daaamn! They’re full of energies, these little creatures.
For the first hour and half, they didn’t shut the hell up for more then thirty seconds, not even during the take off procedure.
Notably the little boy, who was watching everything in awe, and kept asking the same bloody question for every single aircraft’s components: seats, window, light button, passengers and stewardess included: “c’est qua ça?”
After a solid two hours their father bestowed a god-blessed tablet with a cartooned movie preloaded on it; from then on, at last, peace has landed upon the plane, at least for me.
The rest of the flight was serene and uneventful, it gave me a bit of time to further dig into the rich history of this city and the main attractions it has to offer. (It was one of those long-gone years where I would relay on a travel book to get infos about a new place).
I was getting very excited and full of anticipations for my first solo trip.
I was also very proud to have managed to fit all my belongings into my little backpack. I was under the 7kg mark; including camera, lenses and tripod: “Lightness above cleanliness” was the inspirational quote of my traveling during those years. Plus, I was reluctant to the idea of having to pay 49.99€ extra only to carry around more clothes than I would wear. It wasn’t going to get unbearably cold.
From the airport I caught one of those buses that constantly sweep the airport-city-city-airport route.
At first I thought that the driver was totally nuts. Not long after, I was sure about it.
He was driving us to “Taksim Meydani” with a mix of audacity, daredeviltry and heedlessness; the distinctions within these three adjectives were particularly blurred.
To begin with, he didn’t stop talking on his phone for an entire half-hour (obviously without using headphones), which was fairly substantial considering that the bus has started moving only 15minutes before.
Next, he was jumping from one lane to an other, as if there were nobody else on the street (which certainly wasn’t the case); I couldn’t even tell which side of the road people drive in this country.
Regardless of how scared I was, I must admit that there was a lot of confidence in his recklessness; and somehow this confidence seemed to be contagious, as none of the other passages were concerned or worried about his driving skills -and the majority were locals. What the heck! This might even be the best way to drive in this country for all I know.
Most likely he had travelled up and down this route so many times that I bet he could run it with his eyes closed, one hand tied up to his back and a cigarette dangling from his mouth. At least this time his eyes were open and his hand was busy only holding a cellphone.
Twenty minutes into this ride I decided that everything was fine and that I needed to rest and relax a notch. I’d been up and around since 7 am that morning, as I’m always worried about missing a flight; now it was almost 8pm, even though I’ve been sitting for most of this time I felt drained and tired; fatigue was winning me over.
I shook my iPod, closed my eyes, and melting onto my seat, I let my subconscious drift far and wide: visions of beautifully manicured hands, crazy bus drivers, white raki, spinning kebabs and smoking cigarets came to me.
I might have doze off for a few moments, as when I opened my eyes again the sky had changed into darker shades of blues and warmer splashes of oranges. Thankfully I woke up at the perfect time to enjoy a memorable sunset. I check my watch and it read 20.13: late sunsets are by far my favourite. Looking out the window I could spot the city’s silhouette:
In the background, an ardent saffron-reddish sun was setting itself behind some high sturdy buildings rooted on the top of one of the city’s seven hills. The sky was an explosion of colours: from pale tinge of oranges to fierce slashes of reds, to deep stains of purple and soothing tints of blue; hues of pinks and violets were scattered here and there.
Like in a realistic painting, fluffy, weightless, white-greyish clouds hung sparsely in the air, promising rain would come soon. Or maybe it had arrived and passed already.
It was a perfect composition for a great landscape picture I’d love to take; but alas! I realised it too late. My mind was absorbed in the panorama and hypnotised by “Eugene’s Lament”, a sort of Arabic spell, magisterially performed by the Beasties Boys: the perfect soundtrack provided by the shuffle mode. The bus window would have been in the way anyway; I observed as to comfort myself. Let’s just enjoy it as it is.
I arrived downtown about 9pm, effortlessly found my hostel, got a quick shower, and hit the road to have a first bite of this tasty city.
Immediately, I felt sorry for Budapest; she was my favourite city so far; only now, like an bygone shoe, she was replaced by a wilder, more intriguing city.
Colonies of feral cats and packs of stray dogs roam around the tangle of alleys that maps out this part of town. They accompanying me through my prowls for as long as their paths coincide with mine. Intrepidly, the most curious came a little closer; searching for food probably; or maybe, captivated by a new scent, decided to come and inspect what that might be. After giving me a few disappointed sniffs (was it cos I didn’t carried any food or was my smell unpleasant to them I wondered) they return empty paws to their packs and colonies.
I keep on with my wandering and reached the lively part of Beyoğlu neighbourhood filled with a myriad of vibrant bars. Huge speakers hung perched at their entrances, blasting partying music which, I guess, was meant to attract patrols. Diligently, it did the trick, as most of the venues were crammed with people drinking, singing and dancing: the perfect habitat for party animals. I spotted a place that has a rocky vibes to it and went inside.
I sat at the counter and quickly browsed through the menu. It had been a long day and I felt I needed something stronger than a beer to start the night; something like a Negroni, but more of a night drink.
While I tried to explain to the bartender how to make a Boulevardier, I had a firm impression of being observed. I turn my head around a couple of time, even glanced over my shoulder trying to locate the source of that gaze I felt upon me, but I couldn’t track it down. Yet, I was inescapably being observed. Only later, when my drink was ready and I stood up from the bar stool I found it. Behind the wall that lead to the dance floor, through the sparkling strings of a glittering curtain, I spotted two dark brown eyes unquestionably trained in my direction. It lasted for a split of a second, but I’m dead sure that those eyes were staring straight at me, and I had an unshakable sensation that the person who those eyes belonged to, wanted to be ensure that I became aware of them. As soon as our eyes locked and acknowledge each other, the figure quickly dashed away and disappeared. Even though it happened so quickly I could recognise that she was a stunning woman. She had a short fringe covering her forehead, her bob haircut exposed two tiny elegant hears gracefully adorned with big circular earrings made of thin silver that hung at both of her lobes. Her eyes were beyond words, dark, intense and powerful; piercing straight at my soul; or maybe it was my heart. Black “make-up” around the eyes made her look even more mysterious. Long eyelashes reflected a silver light. She wore a black simple dress that left her slim shoulders uncovered. Judging from where I was standing she might have been 1.60 tall. Her fleshy lips tinted with a dark purple lipstick. Her skin was olive-coloured and tanned, but that might just have been the result of the reddish lights coming from the dance floor. Without a doubt she was a very attractive woman.
Almost unconsciously I made my move to follow her; but I was stopped half way by a familiar voice: “Brousin! PD/DC!” I almost forgot I had to meet my cousin here in Istanbul.
I couldn’t believe we picked the same spot. We agreed that the first one who found a good spot would text to the other, but I was too busy scrutinising the cocktails menu and then got “distracted” by those eyes to remember to text him.
It was by pure coincidence that we were meeting in Istanbul; at that time I was living in Paris and he was living in Milan: “Oh I’m going to Istanbul next week.” I had casually mentioned last week over the phone. “DP. Are you kidding me? I’ll be there Friday and Saturday for work.” “No way!” We don’t get to see each other very often, no more then two or three, maximum four times per year, but we do have a tight bound and keep in touch surprisingly well. In fact our bound has strengthened since I moved abroad, leading us to coin the term “Brousin”, a compound of the words Brother and Cousin.
Having an extra reunion it’s a much appreciated bonus. And it’s always a fun-time when we meet.
“I knew you’d like this bar!” He said while we exchange a warm hug.
“Brousin, give me a second, I have to check something out” I muttered in a rush and left him standing there while I dashed off to the dance floor. The room wasn’t that packed, hardly two dozen of people, but they were enough to fill up the room. I look at each and every single one of them, but those eyes were no were to be found. A bit dejected I returned to my cousin.
“Sorry Brousin. I just saw a unbelievably gorgeous girl that..” “..that was looking straight at you. I know I know. Ah ah ah. It’s always the same with you Brousin.” And brotherly slapped me on the back. He was right, it’s always the same with me; but this time, undoubtedly, she was really looking at me.
“How was work, how was the flight” were the two back-and-forth questions we used to get rid of the formalities. Seven months have passed since our last encounter, but after 30 seconds, it felt as if it was lunch time the last time we met; and the Boulevardiers made us feel as if the were no tomorrow. Our time was limited so without wasting any of it, we got into earnest nattering and perilous drinking.
Despite the fact that barkeepers can only munch a limited amount of words in English, when asked, they always reply “Yes! English!”. Still, I have to give credit to them: they do make the effort and try their best to understand and please us. That’s include adding an extra dose of bourbon to our Boulevardier. And when (slowly but steady) the Boulevardiers become five or six, and are chased with several beers, then the night can just go in one direction: the right one.
The night was calm and welcoming, with a crescent moon sliced towards east; it remind me of the national flag. The lack of wind allowed our cigarets’ smoke to rhythmically rise in the sky like a cobra charmed by a Snake Charmer and its pungi.
Today philosophical topics were “where to live?” and “where to travel to?”. Now, this chatter, predictably, turned out to be interminably lengthy, and even thou it was really stimulating and inspiring, it also diverted too much from the main story and I decided not to transcribe it at all (here). Therefore I’ll jump with both feet to the end of that dialogue.“Brousin, I need to go. I’ve a conference to attend in five hours. If I leave now I can at least have 4 hours and half of sleep.” I was on holiday, but my companion was in town for work. “90-180-270. Not too bad!” He notify me, or more likely he was reporting to himself “I can get three full Sleeping Cycles”. I didn’t fully grasp what he was talking about, but I was amazed about his ability of calculus in such inebriated conditions.
“Inevitably it will be a long day for you tomorrow.” I ventured with a mocking laugh “Fuck you!” He genuinely replied with a big smile on his face, so big was the smile that his eyes completely disappeared. Had he already entered one of those Sleeping Cycle? I wondered.
We went to the counter to get the last shots before call it the night: “Two shots of that, please.” I requested pointing at the familiar green bottle, the one with the eagle on top of the World and a faded orange label. We raised our Fernet Branca, cheers to our renewed brousinhood and skolled’em down. As my head returned to its natural position, my look passed on the mirror behind the bar. There I saw those eyes again, looking straight back into mine. I squeezed my eyes as to help the liquor go down faster and turn around: she was not there. She couldn’t have vanished so quickly. I definitely have enough drinks for tonight.
I skate on the world tonight
Cribo Vagabond 