It’s 6AM in Istanbul, but we’re a couple of hours ahead and Istanbul, well, s’éveille aussi. The guards at Aksaray metro station won’t come out of the sentry box because it’s 6AM and even Daesh is having a lie-in today.
The simit sellers are already out supplying the Galata fishermen who’d been out there all night, catching God knows what.
The shops at the foot of Galata escarpment are already open, or perhaps not yet closed. Cats slip in and out, dancing around empty bottles of raki. It’s a Saturday morning.
The New Mosque is all wrapped up in plastic and scaffolding, but Suleymaniye gleams up top and Ayasofya is still looking as if she’d got everything figured out.
It’s six AM in Istanbul. The transvestites are going for a pass of the Bic, the strippers have got their parkas on again, bolsters are crushed, lovers are tired and I’ve found my hotel. Perhaps I can sweet talk the consierge into really relaxing that early check-in policy.