Bridging a through Hi$JQfVS
��Il'r��§O-like kahve read the
wondering about the dusty intrigues and convoluted the walls have witnessed. Suddenly a sleek, very white. 2S0-foot feribot. cuts our path. One of a hundred ferries that ply the
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Bo!;ohor�15. it carries a boatload of suits and vendors from the Asia. three miles to the south. to Stamboul. the the oldest labyrinth of streets and buildings in the Gate of the Engravers is the Kapali Carsi.
Bazaar-miles of narrow arch-roofed streets. with rugs. tinwork and fabrics. their passages from the kabab lokantas. Beyond lie Topkapi Palace, rnU'''lLl''�. the fortresses. walls. harems. hookahs and the
[occasicmal Sheraton. all pervaded by the oddly inviinnlr;otinn
of fried spiced meat and diesel exhaust. There in the city-everything and
ancient and over-priced. Rush hour on the Golden Horn is happening.
between feribots and the smaller water-taxis, and enter the busiest shipping lane in the world. over 2.000 ferry trips a day while the Bosphorus ocean-going ships a year. Beneath us the current runs westward toward the
Marmara and the Dardanelles. Eastward lies the body of Strait and the Black Sea beyond. Sarah. paddling in her cockpit. Mimicking the men on the "Where are we going?" when. from all di rections. call to prayer. the haunting. if recorded. adhan. the water with wavering clarity. We drift to a stop.
"Here seems just fine, " I reply. l
