Chris McGrath/Getty Images. All rights reserved.I have lived in Istanbul for almost a year now, and I have still not found the place called Turkey. I arrived with two suitcases and eyes shining in search of Turkey, glittering under its bright red flag, bordered snugly by Syria, Azerbaijan, Georgia, Iraq and Iran. I searched for a place held together by some sort of defining unity and found a dizzying multiplicity instead, an unending number of 'Turkeys'.
There is the Turkey of Taksim Square and Istiklal Street, the overwhelming crush of people, of languages shouted above the din of the crowd, of street vendors vying for attention on all sides, of cigarette smoke that lingers in the clothing of even non-smokers for days. This is a Turkey that quickens your pulse and teaches you to avoid eye contact while still being acutely aware.
There is the Turkey of Cihangir and Sishane, of tiny cafes tucked into cobblestone walls, of achingly beautiful Greek and Armenian architecture. In this Turkey I have sipped steaming, frothy glasses of sahlep in the rain, spent hot summer nights tripping down alleys filled with bars, languidly energized by cold gin and tonics. I have spent hours perusing bookstores, practicing my Turkish with anyone patient enough to assist me, falling in love with corners of Istanbul I may never find again.
