Istanbul is a megacity polluted, the wonders of Constantinople and Byzantium are embedded in a concrete architecture freely, and tôlondulante rampant, no zone of protection as in Florence or Zaragoza same Avignon.
The Turks no longer wear the fez or the mustache handlebars but still smoke the hookah casually playing backgammon.
Turkish coffee is a quite acceptable broth, tea sold by the holders of street
The fresh fish we eat in cheap restaurants under the Galata bridge, surrounded by cats and crusty pussies ready to lay down a ridge begging anchovy, is more expensive than in traditional restaurants where one sits on cushions made of kilims:
the other side, the bridge between Galata Bridge and Atatürk, boats operetta, strongly agitated by the waves, are home to giant barbecues held by outlandish costumes for cooks fish sandwiches to tourists
In the old city, women are screaming enfoulardées of headscarves in pure synthetic:
burqas are rather less common and less compissées streets that 'at Barbès.
Judging by the sellers of the souk of Marrakech, the sellers of the Grand Bazaar are real gentlemen. Egyptian Bazaar, nougat come in technicolor and almost no sugary version of the pistachios and pomegranate juice reduced the tape still 50 euros per kilo:
Ataturk eve sepia on all businesses, it is he who has replaced the fez cap with stripes:
And of course in the Grand Bazaar:
It takes me for a tourist German, which I like moderately, I whose heart is in the south.
dithyrambs All I heard about Istanbul seem slightly excessive, my head is filled with stories of harems and caravanserai, myrrh and frankincense, not false and fake Vuitton Converse
From my window room on the Bosphorus, I intend to say the least 8 major mosques, including Hoku and Great Blue, the muezzin in the evening to remind me of my childhood in Marrakech.
I finally found how to press the grenades:
Between 1 and 2 euros depending on the size of the glass, I have consumed enough antioxidants to keep all winter:
I'm going out the hand juicer I mocked in New England and wasting oranges.
The problem is that my grenadiers Gard have suffered ten years of consecutive drought.
Here in the Cevennes, it does not come with the idea of eating the fruit of our mulberry centenarians Witnesses of the past Sericultural the region, they simply try to roads crushed black sunglasses and funds small panties that go up there:
In Princes' Islands, the output of the school, girls in uniform are buying from street vendors a kind of lamb tartare rolled in lettuce leaves:
course McDonalds is present but the doner reign supreme. Teens also are scrambling to eat the worst atrocity of street food ever invented, the KUMPIR: an enormous baked potato, format mutant, more than a pound, trimmed the selection of everything you can imagine out of a box: peas, corn, pickles, ketchup, sliced knacks, more butter and cream ... at least 15 choices swallowed under the mayo and ketchup, 2-3 euros for a bomb-atomico dietetics:
I had to take the photo on the internet, my camera that digests the guts yet blithely have withdrawn before the monster ...
Otherwise, you hit more in the Cretan diet with artichoke hearts prepared fresh every market:
And the weeds that I know (almost) all:
Some even go up the scaffolding of spinach and carrots:
The weave tripe tripe lamb Like other hair:
Sandwiches tripe and roast lamb minced eat in the street called the beautifully Kokoreç:
Turbot are Pustular:
I persist and sign the association lamb, eggplant and yogurt always makes me drool as:
And I'm looking nose restaurants that cook their own durum, sometimes arachnids
Not too sweet tooth, I still have to recognize the incredible freshness baklava:
And I challenge: who can tell me what this Schmilblik is invited to eat at home (go ahead, I brought a necklace of fifty )
