Loaded with sugar, Istiklal, the wide boulevard that leads to Taksim (the heart) swells to its fullest in the evening. Invisible currents push backs and feet and the crowd is a river that runs in all directions. Eddying into drums and baglama and a didjeridu, street music pulsates with the brightly lit shops selling everything from electronics, baklavas to the latest fashion. Here are Burger king, Gap and Starbucks. Here, Pizza Hut butts head with the Turkish equivilant ‘pide’. Here, women in high heels and stylish clothes do the cat walk that rivals New York and Paris. Only the Greek embassy in the middle of the boulevard is stoicly barricaded, refusing to participate in its liveliness.
At Taksim the crowd is drained into and poured out of the metro and buses. Always, there is a political demonstration of some sort. On May Day, one can get an extra dose of tear gas. But I’m here in November, meeting my friend Peter at the tram station. He finds me, a little breathless after a half hour struggle upstream. We dive back into Istiklal to find that little hole in the wall in one of its capillaries, where a quiet evening of dinner is promised.
