If Tony Blair feels he is sinking too low in the polls at home, I suggest an ego-boosting trip to Turkey, where he is almost as revered as David Beckham. We wondered why the Turks were being so friendly on our final day in Istanbul (the restaurant where we had lunch even reduced the bill), until we saw Jack Straw’s mugshot staring back at us from the morning front pages.
It was the day after the marathon session where he finally persuaded all 25 EU nations to begin membership talks with Turkey, a country of 70 million, 98 per cent of them Muslim. They’ve been waiting for this for 42 years, but if our taxi driver — lane hopping like a kangaroo on speed — is anything to go by, the Turks are a nation in a hurry.
Visit Istiklal Caddesi, the Oxford Street of Istanbul, on a Saturday night and everyone seems to be going somewhere at once. Still, if you can stand crowds and the world’s maddest drivers — yes, worse than Athens or Cairo — Istanbul is the place to be. The buzz on the streets feels like Prague ten years ago.
On our first morning in the old town of Sultanahmet, we met up with our guide Hande, a strong-willed woman in her 30s, who elbowed us through the tour parties into the Blue Mosque and neighbouring Hagia Sofia. Winding up her spiel, she told us: “Women may be segregated in the mosque, but not in our society. Women work here for equal pay, yet most work harder than men. We are the modern dervishes.”
So saying she whirled us through 1,000 years of history in a flash of marble, gold mosaics and Ottoman splendours before marching us off to the commercial treasures of the Grand Bazaar with its graceful arches and domes. “You tell me what you want — antiques, carpets, textiles, gold, silver, ceramics — and we go there now,” she said.
Isn’t this always the tricky bit? We praised the workmanship and quality of the artefacts, but pleaded poverty and the desire to get beyond the tourist honeytraps. It didn’t take long. Just past the grand shops we found a bazaar where young men were haggling over cheap fake designer jeans and buying polyester soccer shirts next to a stall selling nargile, the local water pipes.
:Farther downhill we were led by a smorgasbord of smells into the Spice Market, where you can fill a big shopping bag with olives, seasonings, shiny chestnut-coloured dates and powdery Turkish delight in pretty pastels, all for a couple of pounds. They also do a good line in fake Le Creuset in baby blue and pink.
Take a cab to Nisantasi, a Knightsbridge in microcosm with Harvey Nicks on its way, where over-made-up matrons pick at salads in street cafés, while paunchy men badly park their Porsches and Harleys. The young and truly beautiful lunch to be seen on thin-crust pizza at Mezzaluna.
Stella McCartney’s new shop is there, alongside Sisley, Vuitton, Valentino, Tod’s and Marella. Why be surprised? Turkey has already given us fashion designers Rifat Ozbek and Hussein Chalayan.
For extra proof that Istanbul has ditched the kebab, head for Fransiz Sokagi, a cobbled French quarter with Edith Piaf and the whiff of Gitanes on the air. Restaurants with names such as Le Caprice, Ooh La La and Coup de Foudre serve up moules and coq au vin to eager locals. It’s kitsch, yet compelling. On the roof terrace at the Café Eclipse we sat next to two teenage girls in school uniform enjoying beer and chips.
But to truly feel the vibe of the new Istanbul, visit the centre of Beyoglu and neighbouring Taksim Square. At first it could be any other European city, but look closer and those blokes on mobile phones are drinking tea, not lager. Among the young girls with bare midriffs twittering in groups in Oxxo, equivalent to Top Shop, a handful still wear headscarves and traditional Muslim dress.
Another difference is the friendliness. We jumped out of a cab one evening almost into the arms of a craggy old man, dressed like a Left Bank existentialist. “Ah, you are English.You must come to my new exhibition,” he declared, thrusting invitations at us. It wouldn’t happen in Paris.
