Year: 2012

Istanbul

Istanbul?! Oh, Lord, to catch the uniqueness of this city into words, I find it absolutely impossible! It is rather a city I would feel: I would embrace and squeeze Istanbul so strongly that it melted into a river flowing in my veins. Thus I could always carry it with me and never miss it again. In the morning, I would step quietly and gently on the sunny narrow cobblestone streets with my eyes closed. In Istanbul’s sun, even when your eyes are widely closed, you see yellow-reddish playful lights. I would touch the hard irregularly-shaped ground with my bare feet and my palms, like a lunatic who never before had seen pavement. At lunch, I would touch Istanbullus’ faces: maybe melancholic, maybe smiling, maybe proud, or maybe flirting with a long-legged blonde tourist. I would touch their chubby cheeks when they chew a kebab, I would smile if I felt a black hedgehoged–mustache. In the evening I would feel the soft warm Turkish carpets, petting the dim light of the street lamps and the …

Christmas in “Istanbul. Memories and the city”

Reading a novel in a quiet flat under a gloomy sky, in a room transformed into an imaginary Yoga retreat centre as soon as our flat-mates left to their families outside Copenhagen, may not appear as the most exciting way to spend Christmas day. But reading “Istanbul. Memories and the city” in the dim light of a lamp are like instant teleportation to Istanbul, wondering around its cobblestone narrow streets through the soul of a young man. The way Istanbul and the author’s memories are described felt so real to me that I may say I spent Christmas with Dayyuman, and a few other familiar figures: with Pamuk, Pamuk’s brother, worrying for his mother spending her evenings alone in the sitting room, blaming the father for all the mistresses he had, taking part in family arguments, loving the love for Black Rose, loving the joy of painting, getting lost in Istanbul’s poor neighbourhoods and savouring every single memory and history related to this city. My dear family back home should be aware: really, this Christmas …

People in Grand Place/Grote Markt in Brussels

There are people kissing. And people making small talk: about pommes frites and Belgium Chocolate, about gauffres and the various types of Belgium beer. There are people playing: playing with a ball, playing with words, playing with people’s feelings or simply with their postures while taking photos. A kid is screaming out: MAMA, MAMAAAAAAAA. Some are holding hands. Some wished they were holding somebody’s hand, I assume. A few people are trying to sell their flowers to couples. But nobody buys flowers for their beloved nowadays. Some guys walk careless in groups. They look happy. Some are lonely  hearts. But they look happy too to me. Maybe I am happy and see happiness every where. Some girls are obviously talking pictures to nourish their Facebook profiles with some “Brussels Albums”. Some must be taking mental pictures: they stay still in front of the beauty of the buildings, maybe trying to encapsulate the moment in their souls. Some speak French. Some speak Flemish. Some speak loudly. Some don’t speak at all. Well, somebody has to listen… …