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ever come to experiencing the exhilaration of body-surfing above a mosh pit. Going out-
side with the worshipping flow, I scanned the dark sky. That scene—one I had forgotten
was so breathtaking—played for me again: hard-pumping seagulls powering through the
humid air in a black sky, surging into the light as they crossed in front of floodlit minarets.
Walking down to the Golden Horn inlet and Istanbul's churning waterfront, I crossed
the new Galata Bridge, which made me miss the dismantled and shipped-out old Galata
Bridge—so crusty with life's struggles. Feeling a wistful nostalgia, I thought of how all
societies morph with the push and pull of the times.
But then I realized that, while the old bridge is gone, the new one has been engulfed
with the same vibrant street life—boys casting their lines, old men sucking on water pipes,
and sesame-seed bread rings filling cloudy glass-windowed carts.
Strolling the new Galata Bridge and still finding old scenes reminded me how stub-
born cultural inertia can be. If you give a camel-riding Bedouin a new Mercedes, he still
decorates it like a camel. I remember looking at tribal leaders in Afghanistan—shaved,
cleaned up, and given a bureaucrat's uniform. But looking more closely, I could see the
bushy-gray-bearded men in dusty old robes still living behind those modern uniforms. On
a trip to Kathmandu, I recall seeing a Californian who had dropped out of the “modern rat
race”—calloused almost-animal feet, matted dreadlocks, draped in sackcloth as he stood,
cane in hand, before the living virgin goddess. Somehow I could still see Los Angeles in
his eyes. The resilience of a culture can't be overcome with a haircut and a shave—or lack
of one—or a new bridge.
On the sloppy adjacent harborfront, the venerable “fish and bread boats” were still
rocking in the constant chop of the busy harbor. In a humbler day, they were 20-foot-
long open dinghies—rough boats with battered car tires for fenders—with open fires for
grilling fish literally fresh off the boat. For a few coins, the fishermen would bury a
big white fillet in a hunk of fluffy white bread, wrap it in newsprint, and I was on my
way…dining out on fish.
In recent years, the fish and bread boats had been shut down—they had no license.
After a popular uproar, they came back. They're a bit more hygienic, no longer using
newspaper for wrapping, but still rocking in the waves and slamming out fresh fish.
In Turkey, I have more personal rituals than in other countries. I cap my days with a
bowl of sütlaç . That's rice pudding with a sprinkle of cinnamon—still served in a square
and shiny stainless-steel bowl with a matching spoon, not much bigger than a gelato
sampler.
And I don't let a day go by in Turkey without enjoying a teahouse game of back-
gammon with a stranger. Boards have become less characteristic; they're now cheap and
mass-produced, almost disposable. Today's dice—plastic and perfect—make me miss the
tiny handmade “bones” of the 20th century, with their disobedient dots. But some things
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