All language subtitles for 2 - Istanbul.ENG

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.