Nowhere did I find the contrasts more enchanting than in Beyoglu. The quarter that began as a 13th century Genoese colony peopled with international tradesmen and bohemians is now a mix of contemporary chic and tradition. At Beyoglu's heart lies Istiklal Caddesi, a long street of bistros and shops. In a tiny restaurant, nomadic women kneel to roll out and bake flat bread on hot round metal plates. Around the corner, college kids hang at the hip Dulcinea, a bar with a contemporary art gallery downstairs.
Pedestrians alter their courses for teenage performers with accordions and violins.
A bright turbaned ice cream vendor from Anatolia stands tweaking his enormous waxed black moustache. The scent of hot chocolate wafts from a small cafe where chefs scoop thick syrup onto cream-filled profiteroles. Only steps from that animated scene, I slipped into the strange public intimacy of a Turkish bath, joining a harem of naked foreign women on a bed of steaming hot marble. My body scrubbed, rinsed and massaged, I sat on a low step for a bucket hair washing that drenched me in childhood memories. Out in the street an hour later, I was surprised at the lingering daylight and charmed by the Muslim call to prayer undulating in the air.