The irony wasn’t completely lost on us. Visiting Dolmabahçe Palace, a symbol of preposterous wealth and privilege, while just outside workers were marching in Istanbul’s infamous Labor Day protests. “What’s that smell?” I whispered to Jürgen, while admiring a carpet with more square footage than any apartment I’ve ever lived in. “Tear gas”, he said, his eyes starting to well up. “Amazing carpet, though.”
I was at my desk in Cihangir, trying to write about the Yeni Camii, while outside the dueling sounds of chanting and tear gas cannons were clamoring for my attention. When, just outside your window, tens of thousands of people are clashing with police in a protest that was making headlines around the world, it’s a little hard to concentrate on anything else.