Original subtitles

ASPECTS OF TURKEY, PAST AND PRESENT

Twenty-six centuries ago,

the first columns sprung up on the hills of the Bosporus.

The lights of the city never go out here.

This town now paints its face in neon.

She is a very old woman.

Her maiden name was Byzantium.

She became Constantinople when she married Rome

and Istanbul by right of conquest.

She is a patrician

who has preserved her pensive soul amid the turmoil of commoners,

by turns nonchalant and inured to hardship.

The porter, crimson or pale-skinned, is ready and muscular.

The ship's siren calls him to task.

Here everything would be meaningless without the Bosporus.

The ferrymen come and go between two continents

without leaving their homeland.

Over the Golden Horn, which separates Constantinople

from the old Frankish city, a bridge has been built,

and the seagulls' cheerful cries echo the noises of the city.

The seawater river crosses the border between day and night.

On the eastern bank slumbers one of three towns that make up Istanbul,

the province of Scutari,

where people go in the evening to escape the noisy western city.

And on the European side,

the lop-sided lanes of the slopes of Pera and Galata tumble down to the water.

Two rare vistas open up over a view of the maritime avenue.

The Bosporus is met by cascades of cobblestones,

landslides of little wooden houses.

Relaxed strollers stretch their legs.

The steep slopes discourage the use of a wheelbarrow.

An imagery survives here that is in line with antiquated times.

All those spared by the fire have found humble refuge in odd jobs.

Thirst is quenched by water and tea,

and indifference dulls with the passing of time.

A newspaper is a screen between reality and illusion.

From these archaic suburbs, let's travel miles and jump a century.

No, let's go round the corner to hear the city's heart beat.

Every minute contributes to the rhythm of necessity.

Languidness becomes toughness.

When the time comes, and these crossroads still dream of it,

they will be ready.

Newspapers here are no longer an excuse for a nap

but the echoes of current events or reflections of an imaginary world.

Coloured pictures of naked women affront the loneliness of men.

"Dolmus" means full.

It's the term used for a taxi hailed by several people making the same journey,

often the property of several drivers.

At the wheel it's every man for himself, at his own risk.

It is said here that all drivers are champions

and added that those who are not are dead.

The city is not built to accommodate these reckless drivers.

The few open spaces home in on main roads built for carriages.

Doomed by future urbanisation,

the top of Pera is still the tiny, impractical centre

of a business district stuck in the year 1900.

The streets are masculine.

Femininity asserts its presence cautiously.

Mothers still hesitate to exercise rights acquired 30 years ago.

Girls are reserved,

and enter the 20th century through the route of the schools.

The law is present everywhere.

Obedience, discipline and a desire for order

are new notions imposed in the streets of Turkey

and carved out of stone and bronze.

Ataturk, the founder, reigns over the new districts in the north,

where the sword of military revolution carves out prospects for the future.

But the past retains its charm

for visitors who love smokers and rare objects.

The meeting point for these mirages is the Kapalicarsi,

the world's biggest market five centuries ago,

since ravaged by an earthquake.

To learn of what a gem it was before its reconstruction in 1889,

you must turn to chronicles told by romantic travellers.

As for what is on offer here now,

cheap Japanese junk vies for a place with local crafts

or the guild of gold and silversmiths.

What does it matter anyway that the antiques are fake,

if the poetry of the deal and the volubility of the solicitations still charm you?

It is imperative to get lost in these 92 streets of 3,000 shops

to discover the truth about the passers-by,

if not of the objects,

which get their revenge at the end of the road

since the Turkish slippers are original.

On leaving this labyrinth and the hard work of haggling,

allow time to regain its own rhythm in these hours of respite.

Lend an ear to the sound of women singing of flowers or passion.

Take a look at the street traders.

Stand in front of the seminaries of the Medrese,

where long ago students pored over the Koran.

Take time to appreciate the flavour of the Orient which will reveal itself,

opening up to you its imposing mosques and landscapes of sacred domes,

without needing to leave Europe.

Nothing is urgent here.

Here the future is only read in the coffee grains.

For these taciturn idlers,

time passes, without words or laughter, or seemingly without needs.

This torpor of the mind is known as "kief'.

Men only.

No rules exclude their lady friends from these morose meetings,

but custom keeps them away.

The most common drink is a glass of tea, then coffee,

lemonade, fruit juice, and raki,

an aniseed drink consumed in moderation.

Customers entertain themselves

with a quiet game of backgammon or dominoes.

They seem content with doing nothing, thinking about nothing.

At night, Independence Avenue, Istiklal Caddesi,

turns into a spiced-up Foire du Trone or a miniature Broadway.

From the kerbside a crowd spills out into the street.

The anonymity and freedom of movement is unique in Turkey.

But the freedom is tinged with frustration,

as is always the case when men do their pleasure-seeking

without women present to be sure to deprive others.

"Ladies' Thighs" and "Belly Buttons"

are the names of some of the dishes consumed with relish.

Eating out in town is a special occasion for the average Turk.

Greedy but frugal, they quaff cherry cordial and yoghurt

and nibble walnuts and almonds.

They are crazy about fruit.

Colourful displays brighten up the greyness of the streets,

bringing a hint of abundance to modest surroundings.

And then...

And then the scent of kebabs and pastries filled with honey and sweet bay.

This heady aroma follows us from shop to shop.

The father of the Turks, looking on imperiously,

watches over his children.

Efficiency is the cult of this once nonchalant country

where advertising knows how to speak to men,

where authority unfailingly tames the turbulent tendencies of car drivers

who like to think they are at the wheel of a tank.

Although rare in the provinces, the car is no longer a luxury here.

The use of horns was banned in Istanbul long before Paris,

and in this unplanned city one-way streets are so numerous

that the shortest route from A to B often takes you in the opposite direction.

But at the end of all the streets there is the water

in this museum town that is also Turkey's biggest port.

Seagulls greet you when you come out of the cinema.

To make any purchase, you have to take to the sea.

Those leaving, those arriving and those staying

all end up on the Galata Bridge.

It may have lost its crown but Istanbul still reigns,

with its sailors and craftsmen, over this nation of farmers.

It no longer sets the law, but still sets trends and opinions.

In the past, the Greeks, when referring to Constantinople,

would simply say, "the city", "istim'bolin".

The Turks adopted the term which survives today.

Disappointed capital, lively metropolis,

Istanbul is still "the city" for them, the only one.

It has weathered the storm for twenty-six centuries,

nurtured wisdom and forgotten nothing.