A Paolo and Vittorio, despite the close distance
From Taksim Istiklal kaddesi entrance to Tunel. Especially if you know the way I imagine. I go down to Galata and I look back on fishermen in line and peeped from their shoulders in some coffee, before arriving at the fish market, before looking at the Bosphorus which is reflected in my face contrite and a little distracted. The pinnacles of the minarets surround the lights in the evening there, beneath the lace inlaid tokapi, and the city is ever more shrouded in gray mist. The black ships pass through the corridor of water that leads straight to Asia. Winter already faces and the bulbs of the fish market to evaporate Karakoy a yellowish light and dim, far more subdued. The piles stacked the remains of fish sold and clean, while the fumes of roasted palamuk Balik rise driven by the wind. The voices of fishermen singing yet another fall in the price and makes the last deal. At this time the fish is sold in pieces. Across the bridge that cuts the horn. The men have their hands in your pocket and chew on a waiting hopefully. Fishing rods are firm and straight to the balcony and still resist tearing wind. They are in the bazaars and mosques. Around in the spice markets and finally turn right towards the holy sites of Sultanahmet. At last June and at the bottom of Fatih University, where mosques mingle with the stalls of fruit and fake goods, while men stopping in the cafes and clubs near the aqueduct Valente, sipping turkish cay and reading the sports papers . There are no women around. Pamuk is right, the sadness of this city is a patina that covers all things, a film that any papers you angle, the peaks of the sacred places to fires in the slums. A Tarlabasi there is a seat of the police, the military in a beautiful setting and a tank in museum display. Narrow alleys, garbage piled up, open sewers and a lot of people on the street. No one here speaks English and yet many people do understand with the eyes, with hand gestures. On the facade of a building is a large poster depicting a policeman who fondles a child. Kol Ganat geret. I take care of you. Here a plate of pilaf costs very little while kofte are larger and tastier. Romanians, Kurds and North African countries, but most of all Tarlabasi is the neighborhood children, running in the streets alone, and walk without shaking hands with mothers, barefoot or in shoes much larger than their feet. They have dirty faces, such as coal, white teeth and pale cheeks. They are dangerous games, lighting bonfires, running and smiling. We take pictures and leave a minute after taking my "compact" run to see in the box room at their faces, before exploding in laughter. A Tarlabasi there are no women with the chador. They all have a towel wrapped on his head and at least one gold tooth in his mouth. They tattooed on the face and sometimes garish designs faded arms. Some sell flowers in Taksim, other work at night. Those that know me warmly greet me with a wink. The clothes hanging on the wires as you chase the kids down the street barefoot. The carpets are left hanging for days in the sun, the shadows of rambling buildings in pastel colors and all different in a frenzy of dirt and waste stored. I sit and eat a piece of bread still steaming hot, just delivered from the oven in the square. At my side a man well dressed and polished shoes with it looks to be one that counts around here. Order a child who wanders in to buy him a bike cigarettes. When the child reaches the nods as if to say to keep the rest. From Bar to bring you two cay Turks, one for him one for me. I thank him but he does not respond and look into space by continuing to smoke. Inshallah. God willing. Onur pronounces this word with blowing force closed in a fist-shaped hands and eyes turned to heaven when I say that I like to visit one day the state of Kurdistan. Istklal Caddesi is the usual human swarm, a cold river of people who walks with his head down, at breakneck speed and never indulge in a look or a face to face. Onur asks me if I have the lighter and only when he realizes that I am Italian reveals his identity. Among foreigners understand you. The Kurds fear the Turks alone, and feel at home with foreigners. Because they are still foreigners, even if they live at home.
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