Monthly Archives: December 2012

Imperfect red…this is a red that is flawed. It flakes, peels and tears but here in Kadikoy it is not ignored. It is gathered up re-sold, re- made or mended. Imperfect red is not extinguished it is celebrated.

Red velvet, red wool, red tassels, red knots, red beads, red cotton… A search to find a group to de mystify the Oya (3D needlelace flowers with different meanings attached to them depending on the colour and style) was in vain. Instead I happened upon by accident a whole auditorium full of people singing the national anthem. The first line of which is ‘Fear not! For the red flag that proudly ripples in this glorious twilight, shall never fade…’

I sat in my rust red ferry seat thinking how the flow of the Bosporus is the life blood of the city…dark red on the inside, bright red on the outside.

Taking the red tram in a loop it was as if there is only one red, the brazen red of the flags, street signs, plastic and petals. A loud frank and direct red. Later  I saw there is another red… This rust red is quieter and gentler. It is the red of the old apartment blocks; the red of the path that runs along the sea front; the red  jackets of the men serving chai in the cafe on the hill. This is perhaps a more complex red, one that whispers. Both exist side by side, both need each other but sometimes the brash masks the rust beneath.

I woke to an accordion passing on the street below. A new friend loaned me a red umbrella. Hours spent dodging the waterfalls that spilled off the mish mash of precariously strung tarps at the ‘Sali Pazar’ in Hasanpasa. Red was the string and the stall coverings; the corners and the lines. Valiantly it fought with the elements to hold this ephemeral world up…

Only a touch of Kadikoy’s red today. Spied as I boarded a boat and set out across the Bosporus…

Today I encountered love quite unexpectedly. I walked out towards the Sea of Marmara and there is was scattered along the shore. Love, blatant, honest and inescapably red…

Past a thousand cats and a man and his make shift shooting range (ballons hung over the sea, two bb guns and an air rifle). Then inland to the Istanbul Oyuncak Muzesi. There waiting for me was red plastic in its many guises…

Kadikoy is a wash out endless rain…

A long trek in the wrong direction led me to a near deserted train station. There in front of a red glass window a lone cat was daydreaming…

Kiziltoprak means Red Soil. Here the red seems to punctuate, not saturate. A gentle yet enduring  protest.

I stepped out the door into a sea of people streaming toward the Bosphorus… “A new earth rally’ was taking place in Kadikoy square. Red flags, red trams, red street signs, red flowers in old tomato tins and a red hot air balloon…