Its either the mark of ambition, or evidence of loose screws: the crowd surges in one gasping direction, so I turn the other way, towards the shots that echo through the misty evening.
The severe balance that precariously exists in Istanbul, skirting between European and Asian, religious and secular, modern and traditional, can be discerned both in cultural momentum (the push towards the E.U.) and in individual psyche (the popularity of a posh restaurant where an old women, kneading bread in 18th century garb, is the centerpiece for business liaison and martini toasts). I felt no surprise than, when after trailing armored police vehicles and the piercing sound of gunfire through the fogged night, I finally reached the source of all the furry: Burger King. Here, in the alleys that belong to the Turkish underbelly (Mafia ecstasy dealings , the female meat-market, all things dark and mysterious that remain unmentioned within the pages of Lonely Planet), shown a beacon of Western conquest, the self-proclaimed royalty of homogenous gluttony. And it wasnt a bad spot to take a Hostage either, I mused amidst the foray of smoke and screams and that ambiguous smell of deep-fried cattle. The Hostage would likely be slow and unfit for resistance (due to high cholesterol and likely sloth), and of course they would be prone to ideological targeting, as supporters of American co-option. That, of course, doesnt justify an act of violence, but at least this particular franchise wont be so popular tomorrow.
My thoughts were interrupted by the jostling of body -armored police and the clicking of super-zoom lenses. The media had leached onto the madness, while skinny and disappointed civil-servants were struggling to gain command. The few civilians who remained in the back-alley excitement were herded behind some protective twine, as the Milkshake Mecca in the distance became the scene of much shouting, firing into the air, and running to and fro. The smell of burnt meat still clung to my nostrils like Canadian cocaine, and the smoggy mist that settled from above, blocking out the magnificent mosques and baroque palaces in the distance, caused an ambiguity of time and space that could have left us almost anywhere on earth. Graffiti-ed stone alleyways, dark-skinned and under-fed police, intermittent yelling in an indeterminate language: choose a continent, please.
A grizzled and balding man, with a telephoto lens longer than my arm, pushed through to capture the neon warmth of corporate logo and the aimless quarreling of men i n uniform. He said he was from REUTERS in that kind of masked matter-of-fact tone that reeks of importance like fries reek of fat.
Well, I played along to the whirling, clicking, robot-journalist, I suppose that means you know whats going on here?
A forced yawn from my better. Just a Hostage situation. Its over now, though he intoned, as if sealing the deal on the tardiness of my arrival. But it seemed it was: a few ruffians in torn t-shirts were shuffled into a waiting police van, and men in suits were sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups like it was the most serious enterprise in the universe. The robot from Reuters yawned again, and began packing up his arsenal. I wondered if this whole situation was a farce planned for free coffee, or a play staged for the benefit of my own racing tourist-heart. I wondered, as a few more shots rang out for no apparent reason, as the media disappeared toward nightclubs that waited, open-armed and glowing with the prospect of more climactic noise and smoke, if this was just more of the same. The balance that is Istanbul: a quiet Muslim girl who will soon marry my boisterous, night-owl, LSD-casualty friend; the man who hawks pens on the ferry across the Bosporus, dressed better than myself in Hilfiger shirt and Armani slacks; the 75 cent all-you-can-eat chorba and ekmet sold alongside 4 dollar muffins; the rap music that is turned down in the internet cafe for the duration of the call-to-prayer.
I began to saunter home through the mist and techno-beats, passing stoic mosques and the palace in which Kemal Ataturk, the hero of Turkish independence and secular pride, took his last breath at 9:05 on the morning of November 24th, 1938 (th e time at which all palace clocks are stopped). I was content for now to watch the dance, to argue about whether or not Turkey would secure a spot in the European Union, to discuss the likelihood of women donning the hijab robes if given their own choice to do so. I would gladly continue to be awoken by the 5 a.m. call-to-prayer, as long as I could still infiltrate those dark parts of the Muslim world left out of Lonely Planet. If Istanbul is a city of balance, than perhaps it knows what Hostage situations will inevitably result in free coffee for all.
Author:: Isaac Blacksin
Keywords:: Istanbul,Travel,Adventure,Hostage,Islam
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