The boat turns round. The Asian shore to the left, so close, slides silent, composed. Restored yalis line the shore; these Ottoman palatial houses have had their wood replaced, some are painted in a sugared almond palette, some in faint butterscotch off-whites, others in rusty red. Some are perched on the lush hills rising close to the Bosphorus. There, they sit alone, serene, engulfed by a sea of green. Their oxide-red keeping them in perennial autumn. Somewhere, the sun is bidding farewell, its light bathing the yalis with the calm intensity of a moment suspended in time. The windows; alight with the last rays, cast back a subdued goodbye before settling for the night. We pass the massive military academy, its long rectangular mass pinned by square towers, their black peak-like roofs standing out against the white body. Further down, the spectacular flame-red sunset unfolding over Istanbul hits my chest and makes me gasp. An invading background, dwarfing the minarets of the majestic mosques, turns the Galata Bridge with its rows of men fishing on the Golden Horn into an inflamed, modern day Canaletto and its hundreds of seagulls, intoxicated by the ignited sky, into directionless arrows piercing the Bosphorus intent on catching the last meal before dusk.
The boat turns round. The Asian shore to the left, so close, slides silent, composed. Restored yalis line the shore; these Ottoman palatial houses have had their wood replaced, some are painted in a sugared almond palette, some in faint butterscotch off-whites, others in rusty red. Some are perched on the lush hills rising close to the Bosphorus. There, they sit alone, serene, engulfed by a sea of green. Their oxide-red keeping them in perennial autumn. Somewhere, the sun is bidding farewell, its light bathing the yalis with the calm intensity of a moment suspended in time. The windows; alight with the last rays, cast back a subdued goodbye before settling for the night. We pass the massive military academy, its long rectangular mass pinned by square towers, their black peak-like roofs standing out against the white body. Further down, the spectacular flame-red sunset unfolding over Istanbul hits my chest and makes me gasp. An invading background, dwarfing the minarets of the majestic mosques, turns the Galata Bridge with its rows of men fishing on the Golden Horn into an inflamed, modern day Canaletto and its hundreds of seagulls, intoxicated by the ignited sky, into directionless arrows piercing the Bosphorus intent on catching the last meal before dusk.
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