I landed in Istanbul on Wednesday. The brothers live near the Galata tower to guard the church SS. Peter and Paul.
The city is impressive. Are impressive mosques and their minarets, missiles pointed at the sky. It is impressive to the transhumance of the crowd at all hours of day and night on Istiklal street. It is impressive to the crossing of ships, seas, bays and the Bosphorus.
İstanbul, a city in an explosion of life, become rich (shopping malls, clothing stores, restaurants, cutting-edge architectural homes), still scarred by the recent signs of distress (the rubbish - waste management is one of the most complex of urban modernity -, the sellers of handkerchiefs, the houses in ruins, the guide wild perennially stuck in traffic), leaves me in awe and makes me feel like those French travelers to discover the East narrated by Edward Said . Yet it is the East, star geographical, sociological and spiritual, from Istanbul to myself intriguing. On the contrary, I think its unique geographical, sociological and spiritual. A
my guide is not only the Lonely Planet, but also a book by Pamuk, entitled precisely İstanbul. And everything he writes is true Pamuk: foams and currents of the Bosphorus, fishermen on the bridges, fire and wooden houses, the movies you are roaming the streets. So much so that I became unbearable to those who speak of İstanbul, because every statement I can not replicate that, "Pamuk says, but ...". Only the sadness of which he speaks so often in his book, I have not found it.
But to find that we must be born here or live long enough to İstanbul to be reborn.
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