Ferry to Uskudar, The Golden Horn, Istanbul. December 2015
I had melancholy thoughts … a strangeness in my mind, a feeling that I was not for that hour, nor for that place.
Orhun Pamuk
There is a rawness, a base level of emotion along the shores of the Golden Horn, in what was called Beyoglu. In the ten years since I was here last, much has changed (new trams and high end shopping), but much has stayed the same. The smells – of raw sewage and of deep fried fish. The sing song chorus of pomegranate juicers and simik salesmen.
It’s always men, and always old men selling simik. They are of this place, and always have been.