That certain je ne sais quoi

Last night, perched high on a rooftop bar in Beyoğlu, Aslı and I lounged comfortably and talked fondly of favourite lady, Istanbul.

Kebap enjoys hıs Sunday sleep in.

Aslı knows the magic of Istanbul better than most, and if like all Turks she can note the disadvantages, hassle and annoyances of living in this great metropolis, she's also one of the first to say something positive about the place too. She asked me, not for the first time, what it is about Istanbul that keeps me here.

Well, it's not the weather. My only real complaint about Turkey is that winter is too long. As I've written earlier, Istanbul is grey, really grey, in winter. And since weather dictates my mood then I pass long periods of doubt and gloom from November to April.

Many years ago, during a course on Middle French, I read the lines of Chretien de Troyes in Yvain the Knight of the Lion:

Car parole est tote perdue, S' ele n' est de cuer entandue.

To understand something truly you must feel it within your heart. Old French eloquence and my awkward translation aside, Istanbul can only be experienced once you begin to breathe it. And then, I'm afraid, it has you in its hold. Of course, any subject or person for which you have feeling excludes impartiality and most certainly rational thought.

Aslı's question must remain unanswered for the time being since I am incapable of dealing with this city with uncluttered, straight-thinking Cartesian clarity. I intend to come back to the issue when I've been away long enough to view it through different eyes. For now there's no other place I'd rather be. Corny, it's also the truth.

Since the sun shone today I awoke to a flood-lit bedroom. Kebap was happy to continue sleeping while I showered and I dropped him off in the neighbourhood mosque garden while I scouted around for a barber. I bumped in Lieve who lives at the opposite end of the street. As a career diplomat, she's just received news of her new posting to Amman.

We chatted about summer vacation plans, how stunningly beautiful the Teke Peninsula region of Turkey is (see Lycian Way entries from April), about the possible catastrophic development of Kaş and the complete non-Turkishness of Ölüdeniz, among other things. I love summer conversations because work is far from everyone's mind. A little while later and freshly shaved I started a slow walk to Ortakoy. Kepab was courting some cheap little tabby tart under a car as I passed my apartment building, but I left him to it, crossed in front of the mosque and down into Kabataş.

Tomorrow is a national holiday, Gençlik ve Spor Bayramı. Commemorating Mustafa Kemal's landing in Trabzon in 1919 and the beginning of the liberation effort to free Anatolia from foreign rule. Atatürk inaugurated Youth and Sports Day during his first term as the new republic's president. I mention this as the Turks can always be relied upon to unfurl the flag on balconies, display it from windows and indeed drape entire buildings in the Star and Crescent. what must perhaps look like fervent nationalism in to the untrained eye is, in my opinion, a fierce pride in secularism and the founding values of the nation. Kabataş was parading in scarlet and so too were the supporters of Bolu Spor and Eskişehir - Turkish football fans love to wear their team colours and everyone was passed was draped either in red and black or red and white. Apart from the police of course who were more soberly outfitted in blue with riot shield accessories.

After passing the stadium I started the polluted Golden Mile, one of my most frequently walked promenades in Istanbul from Dolmabahçe Sarayı, outpost of the moribund Ottoman Empire, to Beşiktaş, canton of pirate CDs and infernal transport hub. Between the two stretches the long tree lined Dolmabahçe Avenue, a wonderful walk among exhaust fumes. I'm always drawn to this area and yet inwardly berate myself for breathing in what must be an unhealthy quantity of carbon monoxide.

Beşiktaş reached, I moved on to Ortaköy where I browsed the stalls and came away with nothing. I am rarely in the mood to shop for anything other than books and so happily snacked on a almond croissant and slowly made the walk home.

When I arrived back in my neighbourhood, Cihangir, I pondered one of the things that really does keep me here - variation. Istanbul has many problems like all great cities, but the constant unknown, that you'll see some new and refreshing every time you take a walk, the fact that everything seems open for business every hour of the day and the new details you note of the old buildings and mosques. The sea and it changing view depending on the hour and the season.

Most of all, the interaction with Turks. Over the course of the day I experience what casual inquisitive yet respectful familiar friendliness that I've never experienced on this scale in a large conglomeration before. I chatted with my neighbour, a man in the mosque garden, a seller of scarfs on the pavement and played football with some boys in the street. The guys in the supermarket say hello every time I pass, as does Hamza the television repair man on my street and the rustic farmer selling artichokes from the back of his truck.

Kylie, this is my town.

Here, you're a nothing but an hyper-botoxed tourist.

It's a very small gesture and yet perhaps above all else, I love the inhabitants of this city's ability to communicate with a simplicity and genuineness that I'm yet to discover elsewhere.

I feel like I belong here. Which feels rather nice.