Of stray cats and rooftops

Last night, as I sat with friends on the fourth floor terrace of a bar in Nevihsade street, I watched an extremely agile cat scurry up the eavestroughs and crumbling bricks of the ornate old buildings crammed next to one another, and disappear into the darkness of the moonlit roof. This cat, so free and wild and without a trace of fear to the precarious angles and dangerous heights around it, made me think of my own absurd situation in this city - however un-brave I am feeling by comparison.

There is nowhere in the world with as fine of rooftops as İstanbul; the multitude of decaying skinny brick-and-wrought-iron structures blend together wıth the minarets, old tin chimneys and red-shingled pointy roofs to create a ramshackle and gorgeous landscape, which is only emphasized by the fact that due to the crowded nature of the city, virtually every buildıng has some sort of terrace on the top that one can sit (and often drink), on. Face one direction and you observe the harbour of the Golden Horn -once a dirty inlet full of polluted water and boats trading goods, rough and tumble sailors from all over the world gathering to eat and drink on the edge of Europe- but now clean and full of tourist cruises and busy sheesha cafes. Face the other way and the dim lights of the rapidly gentrifying ghetto of Tarlabacı call out - clotheslines and derelict buildings of illegal immigrants and shoeless kids playing in the rubble, somehow an equivelent to New Yorks Alphabet City ın the 70's and perhaps an absurd comfort in a world elsewhere so polished and clean. Face south and the wide glitterıng Bosphorous shines, this huge straight seperating Europe and Asia, full of boats from all over the world - İ always think ın awe of what Orhan Pamuk said about Russian ships covertly sailing through in the mıiddle of the night during the 60s cold war, or the fact that Aircraft Carriers have squished under the bridges and through here, from the Black Sea to the Mediterranean and beyond.

My point is, here İ am working at a hostel for what in North America would be somewhat of a pittance (approximately 3 dollars an hour in case anyone's asking), barely scraping by and balancing like a lost feral cat, dealing with the daily frustrations of living in a place where English ıs not the language, simply because of things like this: the innate visual Poetry of the Roofs of Istanbul. İts seems outrageous and silly, when I could be making a decent wage back in Canada, saving money and spending time with my frıends and family, to stay somewhere for such reasons. İ romanticıze things so much in my own mind that İ find I laugh at myself on a regular basis. Like Pierre Loti in another time, wooed by the decorative details and shiny exoticism of living in a place wıth such a romantic colourful hıstory, and such a beautiful antique appearance. I've been thinking a lot about Orientalism lately, and as much as İ hate that word and its semi-racist connotations, I guess İ might as well come to terms with it. Just the same way people fall in love with cultures anywhere -as much as people love Canada for its wilderness and rugged lumberjack stereotypes, Japan for its techıe neon Harajuku glamour or adore France for its croissants and Museums and good sense of "french" style- İ too am in love with the tangible mythology of İstanbul gone by.