Situationistmarch09

Situationİst Takes Tea with the Mad March Crowd Charles Dogdson, a.k.a. Lewis Carroll. Mathematician, fabulist, author of one of the most lastingly popular children’s books in history – adored by adults in equal number - and, “ahem”, so his detractors say, a little too fond of Alice Liddell, the pre-pubescent muse for his Alice stories. Whatever your take on the man may be, you can’t dispute his acute sense of the righteously insane lurking within daily language, and his ecstasy in spinning it out on paper. Through his lookingglass take on the world, seeing what you eat amounts to eating what you see. Or like the drowsy dormouse at the Mad Hatter’s tea party (surely a prototype for the spaced-out Dylan in ‘The Magic Roundabout’) “I breathe when I sleep is the same as saying I sleep when I breathe”, which in his case of course, it was. The Mad March Hare only compounded matters. And in Istanbul, well… “Like an army defeated”, exclaims William Wordsworth’s bucolic poem ‘March’ – “The snows have retreated”. And yes, though I can barely believe it myself, it’s March once again; a seasonal turning point of sorts, and by extension, also a mental one for all of us. Because somewhere beyond the woolly borders of Istanbul a freshly-born lamb has just traced its first wobbly steps towards the slaughterhouse. Stubborn crocuses are fighting their way up through deep snows that never fell, and the fleet-footed spirit of spring is beating back the bleak chill of winter that at times saw highs of 17 centigrade. Still, ‘it’s all in the mind’, as Ringo assured his mop-headed mates in quest of that yellow submarine. And talking of coincidence in the ancient world, 44BC proved to be a right old flapper in downtown Rome, as Julius Caesar, illustrious conqueror and campaign chronicler felt the business end of a treacherous dagger on the ides of March, at about 3.24 pm. Most people’s knowledge of Brutus comes from Hollywood depictions of his final stab, a prototypic Judas kiss, as it were, given to the man who had awarded him rank and status. Actually, old Julius had also done the beast with two backs with his mother, but then in Rome that was the equivalent of complimenting a woman on her hairdo. Moreover, in fact, there was a historic precedent to this flick-knife finale, as Brutus’ ancestor, Junius Brutus, a used chariot salesman, is credited with deposing the last Roman king, Tarquin Superbus, way back in 509BC. And it’s surely no coincidence either that earlier in the fateful year Caesar had kindly accepted the title of ‘dictator for life’, a phrase my wife worked into our wedding vows. With the coy modesty of a Turkish politician he was also the first ruler to have his face immortalized on coinage; the honor had until then been reserved for a deity, to which some believed he was hoping to graduate. Well, we can all dream, can’t we? But what the hell are “ides” anyway? Just a convenient term to mark the arrival of the full moon. Yet in literature down the centuries since that dastardly deed, the phrase has come to mean turning point, or watershed moment. Just like spring itself really. Whatever the temperature, there’s clearly a different smell in the air here, isn’t there? This is doubly obvious to any reader who remembers the Istanbul of about fifteen years ago and the sulphurous fumes of its chimneys before natural gas exploded. Oops, mustn’t tempt fate. The birds here can certainly feel it, and have been a twittering pain in the ass since late January anyway. Yes, even as you read, Istanbul is gradually uncoiling herself in preparation for the al fresco life-style afforded by long summers. No, it’s not quite hot yet, but nursing a beer

outside a café for any length of time is no longer the preserve of the mentally ill, the homeless, or backpackers from Bucktooth, Idaho. The Bosphorus mostly seems to have lost its leaden grey, and walks along both its shores are a pleasure un-spoilt by sudden rain. Pretty soon happy pregnant dolphins will be gamboling again in the sewage off the coast of Ortaköy. No, just kidding. This is a time for fresh thoughts and fresh starts. A good time to visit the city’s attractions ahead of that snaking crowd following some bloke with a national flag held aloft. To gaze out at one of the greatest seascapes in the world. Or to eat a cheap, filling and early breakfast in Istiklal Street as the trams clang by, before the entire population joins you at about 11am. The last word goes to that feckless Mad Hatter, whose poor singing prompted the Red Queen to scream “he’s murdering the time, of with his head!” Since then, he laments, time won’t do a thing for him, and it’s always 6 o’clock and time for tea. In Istanbul too, it’s always a good time to pause in your tracks for some refreshment. And somehow, madly enough, the smaller the café, the better the tea.