Thus, through the years I have come to Istanbul many times. So, initially I was hosted by locals on the Asian side of the city, more precisely at Kadıköy, a young, cheap and open minded district of Istanbul. And, for a while, I have lived with a girlfriend in Burgazada, one of many Prince islands of the Marmara sea. Plus, I have lived in a middle class neighborhood, at the top of the Fatih, close to the Constantinople walls, hosted by the son of an old embassatrix. And I lived in Tarlabaşı, a gypsy-armenian neighborhood located really in the city center, not far from Taksim square, etc. But this time, I came to stay at the Harmony Hostel, located in Eminönü, a waterfront district uniting the Golden Horn and the Sultanahmet hill, the hill where lays all the main historical buildings of Istanbul, say, the Topkapı Palace, the Blue Mosque, the Ayasofya, or the Yerebatan Sarayi, also known as the "Subterranean Palace”, allegedly the largest of several hundred ancient cisterns lying beneath the city, this one, the Yerebatan Sarayi, built in the 6th century during the reign of Byzantine emperor Justinian I, also known as Justinian the Great, the Eastern Roman emperor that ordered the construction of Hagia Sophia. But, coming back to the present, here I ́m, at the top floor of this Harmony hostel, on a balcony, with a view over the Marmara. And so, as I finish my cigarette I go inside. And just now I get aware, that, there are several groups of people here, and each group is wandering at a different spot of the room, this is, right here, by the glass walls, it's the place where the arabs dwell, close to the door, constantly getting in and off the room, always ready to enjoy private conversations on the balcony. And there, more to the middle of the room, by the back walls, there is a small group of guys sitting on big cushions on the floor that we can describe as washed up hippies, drinking tea, scrolling on their mobile phones, and making silly comments about god knows what. Then, further to the end of the room, there are some tables with food and shelves of books in the back, and some individuals gather around it, eating and leafing through books… instead of speaking, and so, I go for it… and soon, as I get there, I take a look at the tables, and humm, instantly I pick some Sarma rolls, some stuffed grape leaves, stuffed with what I’m not sure, but they taste like vinegar and butter and tahini. And I also pick some dates and carrots and a glass of pink yogurt with fried eggplant… and, as I do it I get aware of a girl on my side picking huge chunks of hard white cheese, drizzling them with some reddish curry and then she drops two yellowish helical things on the side of her plate, and “it may be burned marshmallow…” she says while I fill two glasses with mull wine, and then, and we go to sit on a corner, snacking. And as it goes I get to know her name, and she is Russian or Ukrainian, whatever, and then I get aware of the music coming from the speakers hidden behind the bookcase, some sort of Arabic Chinese thing with Latin rhythms, and we talk about these rhythms, slightly, while chewing... And then, I notice, the ones placed around the bar area, are mainly central Europeans and Americans, talking bunk about their travels through Turkey, the typical flimsy speech about the Greek ruins near Izmir, the Çanakkale war pitches, the Bodrum beaches, and the Halicarnassus ranked as one of the seven wonders of the ancient world, and the Sufi temples in Konya, and the tomb of Rumi somewhere close to the salty lakes of Pamukkale, Antalya etc. And here again, by the bookshelves, not far from me, there is another group of people, the intellectuals, and so, as it goes, a German guy explains that he's doing some kind of documentary about refugees around the world. And now, here he goes, explaining how he pursued and filmed some of these fugitives coming from Asia and from the Middle East, adding that he has been following them since Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iran, and then, he says, “I accompanied some until Greece, Germany, France, even Sweden, etc”. And I think to myself, “upa, upa, a documentary about refugees, yeah yeah, what a good excuse for a new-age tourist going around the world making art out of the misery of others, yepa, yepa, modern-art”. And so, now, on his mobile phone, he’s showing some scenes he has filmed in Germany, this is, whole families of Easterns begging money on the side of highway entrances, “these are scenes from the suburbs of Berlin, Frankfurt, Hannover” he says, “they are begging here coz they could no more beg in the city, the police have stopped them…” he adds. And then he shows some scenes of children in mixed schools learning German, and we can see, in these scenes, arab children being discriminated by the children of Turkish descendants, and then, in Paris, “this is an homelessness youth association near Gare du Nord” he says “a palace where refugees go to have some free breakfast and other basics…” and now we see some Africans kids, Arabs and even some Latin Americans, all playing together… etc, but “Turkish people are rarely seen there” he informs. “Yes, Turkish people are too attached to their families…” a local guy comments, “in true, Turkish do not love freedom, they love misery, they love to work... that’s why when they go to work in German, their master plan is to come back here with a big Mercedes Benz full of fake Euros, sausage cans and chocolate tablets”, and now there is some noise around this commentary, people interposing, some of them laughing… and then, from nothing, someone begins talking about the wife of Justinian the great, Theodora Augusta. “Theodora was of Greek descent, but much of her early life, including her place of birth, is unknown, some say that she was born in Syria, some say that she was a native from Kreta, and some other even say that she came from Paphlagonia, an ancient region on the north-central part of Anatolia, by the Black Sea… or that she was the daughter of Acacius, a bear trainer for the Hippodrome's Green faction in Constantinople, and her mother, whose name is not recorded, was a dancer and an actress…. and also, she had two sisters, an elder named Comito and a younger named Anastasia… and it is said that after her father's death, her mother remarried but the family lacked a source of income, and so, when Theodora was four, her mother brought her children wearing garlands into the Hippodrome, presenting them as suppliants to the Green faction, but they rebuffed her efforts. Consequently, Theodora's mother approached the Blue faction which took pity on the family and gave the position of bear keeper to Theodora's stepfather… and so, according to Procopius' Secret History, before the onset of adolescence, Theodora began to work as a prostitute alongside her older sister Comito, that was already performing onstage and also in some brothels, serving low and high-status customers… and so, some even say, that, it was Theodora that posed for the classic paint untitled Leda and the Swan, by Michelangelo, a portrayal where she would have birds eating seeds from her nude body…” and then, the panelist makes a pause, and I, I take this opportunity to leave the room, so, I pick my bags down the stairs I go, still thinking about this Theodora, and then going through the jewelry shop on the ground floor, greeting the hostel manager, an enigmatic man, and then, out. As I walk fast along the Hüdavendigar Caddesi, I pass in between some tram wagons and then, a series of souvenir shops, washed up artisan offices, turquoise blue artifacts, some mini markets and small restaurants that also would serve as travel agencies. And then as I turn right I pass in front of the Sirkeci Train Station, that once was the eastern terminus of the world-famous Orient Express that long ago operated between Paris and Istanbul, and then, at the end of the Ankara Caddesi, I reach the Eminönü pier, from where the many ferries depart to Karaköy, Beşiktaş, Üsküdar and Kadıköy, and so, I turn left and go along the pier hearing a man's voice wailing through a loudspeaker, “Bosphurus, bosphurus, bosphrus…” and then as I quicken my pass, I surpass the stand of some Simit (sesame bread) sellers, and then, at the end of the pier, I go up some stairs that give access to the bridge that goes over the Golden Horn/Haliç, known as Galata bridge, and so, as I go along this bridge, I share some comments with the men leaning against the railings, fishing, drinking shai, smoking, and in a while I’m already at the other end of the bridge... and so, here I do left and go down some stairs again, soon reaching a plateau middle way between the bridge itself and a subway passage leading to the karakoy iskelesi/pier… and so, yes, it's here my place, this plateau is my stage, here I’m coming to play many times, a place with good acoustic, and also, some kind of meeting point between the people coming from Beyoğlu, the central district of istanbul, and the ones coming from Eminönü, the district on the other side of the bridge from where I just came, and so, right away I start unpacking the stuff from my bags, and first I take out the xylophone, wrapped in clothes, and then, the cymbals, also wrapped in clothes, and a set of cans, pots and pans, a small electric guitar, a portable amplifier etc. And thus, first I spread a piece of cloth on the floor, actually some kind of bed cover, and then I begin put all the utensils and instruments over it, this is, the xylophone in the middle, the cymbals around it, the pots and pans on my right, and the electric guitar on my left. And then, there are the small microphones I must install under the xylophone, plus the effects pedalboard for the guitar… and then I need to connect some cables and set the portable amplifier, and while I’m doing this some people come to me and ask me what am I doing here with all those gadgets scattered around me, and apparently they are thinking that I’m placed here, in the openair, with the intuit of selling all this musical staff, and so, I smile at this assumption… making some kind of upward nod with the head, indicating that no, I’m not selling anything, and then, as I begin hitting the guitar, still setting the effects-board, we start hearing some kind of melancholic voice in the air, coming with some gruffiness, and the sound of my guitar is already merging with that voice, and then, straighaway, some old man passing by turns to me and says “ezan… ezan… ezan” and he looks a bit upset as he tells this interjections, and yeah, we already know what he means, he means something like “shut up you stranger, this is the call for preying, so, you should respect, you should be quiet for a while, coz this is the call for preying, ok”, and yeah, that is what the moral rules say, but we also know, music is some kind of praying as well, and so, I think to myself “the call for preying, this should be some kind of signal, I should start my cerimonia now…” and so, here I go, knees on the cushion, drumsticks in the air, I begin hitting the monster, making it talk, making it bray, making it cry, making it buzz.
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