Travel Reference
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of body-suri ng above a mosh pit. Going outside with the worshipping l ow, I
scanned the dark sky. h at 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 l oodlit
minarets.
Walking down to the Golden Horn inlet and Istanbul's churning water-
front, 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 i lling cloudy
glass-windowed carts.
Strolling the new Galata Bridge and still i nding old scenes reminded me
how stubborn 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. h e 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 “i sh 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 i res for grilling i sh literally fresh of the boat. For a
few coins, the i shermen would bury a big white i llet in a hunk of l uf y white
bread, wrap it in newsprint, and I was on my way…dining out on i sh.
In recent years, the i sh and bread boats had been shut down—they
had no license. After a popular uproar, they came back. h ey're a bit more
hygienic, no longer using newspaper for wrapping, but still rocking in the
waves and slamming out fresh i sh.
In Turkey, I have more personal rituals than in other countries. I cap my
days with a bowl of
sütlaç
. h
at's rice pudding with a sprinkle of cinnamon—
