Assignment #3 - Writing Berlin and Istanbul

Amidst the chaos, beauty emerges…

As far as I was concerned, Istanbul was just another city on a map. A dot on a sheet of paper. I had no idea what to expect and what I found surprised me. Whereas Berlin stands as a city reliant on order, modesty, stability and following the rules (no matter how ridiculous), Istanbul represents the polar opposite. The order and stability I grew accustomed to in Berlin gave me a lens that magnified my perceptions of disorder Istanbul.

Chaos in the streets. A sea of yellow taxis amidst black pavement. Just watching made me dizzy—cars weaving with little disregard to surrounding traffic; completely ignoring the lane-delineating lines; liberal use of the horn as though the car’s warranty depended on it.

Pedestrians fearlessly jaywalking over crowded arterials. Little children holding up bottles of water to drivers in the middle of the road as cars zoom by. Only 0.5 Lira.

Shops and sellers showcasing their wares on the sidewalk. Need some knock-off cologne? Perhaps some fine plastic watches? Grilled corn? Not ten meters pass without being offered some food or trinket.

I recall visiting the Blue Mosque. Stately minarets seeming to pierce the evening sky. I stepped inside onto the lush carpet and felt small; insignificant; that I lose my voice to the cavernous area. I imagine millions coming through this building over the course of centuries, struck with the same feeling of insignificance—hopes and aspirations lost into the collective void.

Earlier, a throng of tourists wandered the outer gardens while a call to prayer blasted through the speakers. Grilled corn vendors and watermelon sellers received great business during this time.

I smelled grilled beef, onions, and strong spices on my breath. Still earlier, the late-afternoon sun beat down while I avoided the myriad divots, piles of rubble and trash while wandering around on the cobblestone walkways. Stray cats walked by nonchalantly; not a block passes without me seeing one. In my right hand, I held a 3.50 lira Kebab in pita bread. It satisfied my caloric needs but brought about a longing for Berlin’s better-tasting döner kebabs. Regardless, my breath reeked—probably those onions.

I am spoiled in Berlin. Along with the superior kebabs, many people speak English here. Most comprehend and give an answer should I ask a question. In Istanbul, most people don’t speak English. It stands as a border; a wall; a schism difficult to cross. I had no idea where our dormitories stood. Unless I kept a sheet of paper with an address that I could point to, asking for directions of hailing a cab home proved impossible. Unless pictures litter a restaurant menu, I have no idea what I’m ordering. Suffice to say, my communication transformed from spoken sentences to a series of nods, shakes, and finger pointing more often than I cared for.

Up an alleyway we walked, the narrow cobblestone path turning into an obstacle course complete with the tables and chairs of unfinished diners, shelves showing off the trinkets aimed for Asian tourists, and the smell of hookah wafting through the air. Old men playing rummy. Ducking under a vine canopy, we stumbled upon a white sign. A list of undecipherable names and prices. A finger point and a nod. 5 minutes later, I got myself a kebab.

Rules are rules. Except when they aren’t. Berlin made me accustomed to strictly following rules. Every morning, for fear of being lectured by a stern German police officer and a 40€ fee, I triple-check to ensure my transportation pass is in my wallet. Car traffic flows smoothly, with everyone staying within their lanes and the honk of the horn being a rare occurrence. Pedestrians only cross the street when the green walking man lights up. Coffee shops kick out all non-paying persons from their tables. All dogs infallibly act obedient to their owners.

In Istanbul, rules are only guidelines—and even this stretches the truth. Five cars somehow span three-lane road. Locals commonly play “Frogger” across major arterials. Pirated goods and fake t-shirts line all major sidewalks and bazaars.

And yet, amidst all the chaos and rule-breaking there lies a certain irresistible feature to the city of Istanbul. Perhaps it lies in the melancholy, the hüzun felt by the natives and barely perceived by visitors—the vendors still able to smile and act warm despite barely making a living, the stray animals tucked away in random corners; the list goes on, but I’m no Orhan Pamuk. Perhaps its lies in the Bosphorus—vast, shimmering, and opaque.

Even at 5:30 in the morning, they held their place. Some slept atop a makeshift bed composed of two crates. Others stood. Next to smelly shrimp in clear plastic cups, lines cast out into the dark waters. Waiting; hoping for a nibble, a bite. A bite that allows a roadside food vendor to waft the smell of cooked mackerel into the air. These men once had bigger hopes; dreams of a more comfortable lifestyle. Now they stand on a concrete bridge. They fish. Their livelihoods controlled by the whim of the vast waters. It’s as if they cast out dreams along with the shrimp bait, more often than not losing them into the void; a bare hook being all that remains of past hopes and aspirations.

How do they survive this lifestyle? What makes them smile? I pondered this for some time. Then, some light. A faint glow of orange cast on the water’s surface. The sun peeked its head over the horizon and I felt as though I understood. A ray of hope shining on the patient fishermen. A new day. Sunrise.

Perhaps Istanbul’s irresistibleness lies in the warm, friendly demeanor of its people. Old men play cards or rummy at hookah bars, smiling and conversing. Their eyes expressing an open welcome to all who walk by. Café owners chat before the morning rush and are more than happy to point out the nearest burger joint or bakery. It’s difficult to describe, but the people in Turkey possess a certain aura of “welcomeness” about them. A certain something where I am not hesitant to walk up to a stranger to ask directions.

Morning. Sunny as usual. The cool breeze from being near the Bosphorus blew into our faces. The growl of our stomachs. Hunger. Our feet led us into a maze of alleyways nearby our dorms. Peeling paint, disintegrating brick. A ceiling of green vines that keeps the area cool mid-afternoon. On tables stationed outside of neighboring cafes, the owners conversed for all to hear except for we who cannot understand. They smiled. They took us into their shops. Only pea soup and bread stood on display. We asked for the nearest bakery. Two finger points and another smile. Baklava for breakfast.

As attractive and often irresistible Istanbul seems, I felt glad as I flew back to Berlin. Certainly, I miss the friendly demeanor and at times, the chaos, but five days was not enough time for me to get situated enough to call the area “home.” Berlin (well, Mitte and Kreuzberg), became my home after a week of living in the dorms. That’s how long it took to create a spatial map of the area—through runs and field trips—and establish a sense that I knew where things were. When the novelty of riding the subway to Alexanderplatz wore off and became routine. When concentrated thought was no longer required to navigate to essential locations—be it the grocery store, döner kebab shops, or department store. When I began hiding smug smiles upon seeing tourist groups snapping photos of the Brandenburg Gate. What’s so exciting about it?

I’m home. I’m back in routine. I love it.