The Waters of Istanbul

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Istanbul is surrounded by water, yet it is not an island nor a peninsula. I think it may be an isthmus. I hope it’s an isthmus, because isthmus is such a cool word that one does not get to use often. To the north (on a map, up), lies the Black Sea, which is blue, but which contains a high degree of sulfur, giving it a distinctly blue hue whether seen from the sky, hills or shore. Sulfur or not, the Black Sea is blue. Fact.

To the south (down) is the Sea of Marmara, a word that seems to sigh “sea.” When one says “marmara” softly and slowly, one can almost hear the lapping of the waves on a warm, solitary beach. (Hint for Transcendental Meditators: Find a comfortable, isolated spot, close your eyes and murmur ‘marmara’ slowly in time with your breathing. Soon you will attain a level of such deeply serene boredom that you may actually want to get up and do something useful with your life).

Connecting these two seas is the official, certified, stamped and approved dividing line between Asia and Europe, called the Bosphorous. The word is Greek and means “breath.” It is a narrow, deep salt-water strait that features major shipping traffic, no tidal action and dangerous, unpredictable currents (the raisins are safe, however, after being washed). The reason there are no tides is because the Sea of Marmara is somnambulant and the Black Sea is blue. Fact.

Stuck between these aquatic attention-getters is the so-called “Golden Horn,” a deep, brackish river depository with a distinctly horn-like shape that splits the European side of Istanbul in two. I surmise that it was given its name either because the Europeans saw it as a metaphor for a trumpet used to call Christian Soldiers to attack the infidel, or the Turks saw it as a rhinoceros horn shoved up the Austrian empire’s eastern end.

The city has over 16,000,000 inhabitants, not counting the unofficial homeless persons nor the officially non-existent homosexuals. The reason for this remarkable fecundity is simple: no pubs. When not at work, the men stay home at night and make babies. Or they go fishing.

Every waterfront is moustached with a bristling fringe of fishing poles that from above looks like half of a giant, overturned centipede (take that Camus!) The poles are long—at least 12 feet—and telescoping so that they can be carried on a bus. The fishing tackle consists of several small baited hooks attached at intervals to a main line. The reels are large and the line high test, as though intended for handling heavy fish. The fishermen (this appears to be an exclusively male activity, although I have seen women sitting about) don’t appear to use weights, hence the need for long poles (apparently the Istanbullus who have been fishing these waters for centuries have yet to master the mechanics of casting.)

I have only seen maybe six fish caught, small silvery things that make a bait herring look large. In fact, the only containers I have seen for carrying home the day’s take are medium-sized buckets (again, they have to be bus-worthy). And now that I really think about it, these small fish must be the goal, otherwise people wouldn’t be fishing from bridges well above the water. “Why?” you ask, eyebrows arched like a cats in a spat (take that, Seuss!). “Why spend so much money and time to maybe catch a few tiny fish?” Answer: no pubs. Fact.

P.S. One final word: “Isthmus.” Yes!