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Imagine waking up in Istanbul on a misty January morning and hopping on a ferry
across the Bosphorus. A place that invokes and almost ritualistic reverence, as powerful as the river Styx or Mount Kaf. Its sound alone — Bos-phor-us — with its lyrical cadence and transition from hard consonant to soft trailing breath, echoes the realities of the city, with the power to captivate and bewitch.

But what does the Bosphorus mean and where does it fit into the fabric of Istanbul?

It’s my third year in this city and still the answer is a mystery. For me, this is a place to be lived and felt than understood. Early morning is the best time to experience Bosphorus.

It will not be a typical trip through Istanbul, as we focus on this overwhelming
city’s subtler tones. This trip doesn’t require a guide, only an ounce of adventure and the flaneur’s heart. And it’s better embarked upon alone, with an eye for mischief and a mind seeking subversion.

The Bosphorus is steeped in a subversive history. Whether it’s wars, royal intrigues or the burning yalis of Orhan Pamuk. The murky depths of the Bosphorus is a vast library containing all of the scandals, secrets and sultry subterfuges of Istanbul.

Setting off from one of the many jetties on an ageing ferry is a little like drifting over the city’s undisclosed past; this is not only the cheapest way to get around Istanbul, but also the most spiritual.

Tragically, the old ferries are slated for retirement, succumbing to the latest technology. Although they fail the test of modernity, riding them is like stepping out of a stiff tuxedo and into a soft terrycloth robe. Sitting on one of the wooden benches on the open-air stern and feeding simit bread to the hordes of
seagulls is really breathtaking.

Curio salesmen pitchinh their wares and tea sellers carrying trays of Turkish chai introduce the spirit of Istanbul.

Together in a strange way
Entering this world is as easy as finding one of the piers dotted along both the Bosphorus and Golden Horn, in Eminonu or Karakoy or Kasimpasa districts. The currents take you up the Bosphorus, past Tophane and Dolmabahce Palace, into Besiktas where a quick change of boats will take you further on to Ortakoy, a sleepy historic district under the shadow of the Bosphorus Bridge.

This bridge has been the pre-eminent link between East and West, the first in

Sick man’s renaissance
The Bosphorus Bridge, built in 1974, represents the initial phase of Istanbul’s spiritual renewal. Expressed in terms of music and art, this renaissance has gained phenomenal momentum ever since the bridge’s construction. Authorities
in Istanbul have promised to make this city the cultural capital of Europe by 2010. The Istanbul Biennale rivals its Venetian counterpart, perhaps betters it, for its freshness of perspective and experimentation in galleries, theatres and music halls.

So if the Bosphorus is the avenue of Turkey’s past, Istiklal Caddesi in Bayoglu district is the road to its future. However, the past informs the future in Turkey. At Araf, a bar on Nevizade Street running off Istiklal, Selim Sesler belts out classic gypsy tunes for the next generation of Turks who respond with the gyrating belly dance.

In Babylon, Bayoglu’s prime concert hall in the Tunnel neighbourhood, Mercan Dede, Turkey’s prince of electronic music fuses Sufi with modern sounds while at the Galatasaray Dervish House, Mevlevi Sufis whirl to sounds of centuries-old songs. Ceza leads the charge for a booming hip-hop scene and Baba Zula amazes with its unique brand of underground fusion music.

Turks obviously know how to have a good time. But in contrast to cities like Bangkok, where nightlife and contemporary arts are almost borrowed from the West, Istanbul offers its visitors a distinct Turkish experience. Spend a night in
Cicek Pasaji, an ornate indoor courtyard lined with meyhanes and experience an onslaught of Turks drinking raki and singing classic Turkish songs. Walk down Istiklal and listen in on the incredible variety of street musicians playing many instruments, which are still a mystery to me.

I often take an early morning ferry ride up the Bosphorus and think, What is Istanbul? Is it the great mosques designed by Sinan? Is it music? Or is it that tea seller and curio salesman? The answer, I’m sure, is locked away somewhere
in the depths of Bosphorus.