There would be water - unpredictable waters that very large ships have to pass through one at a time, each bobbing and waiting in line like so many cats lingering around the back door of a butcher's shop.
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Your splines would be reticulated with great cruelty, a series of hills so steep the city built a funicular railway from the shore of Karaköy to the top of one just for the fat bankers who got tired of walking up the beast in the heat of an Istanbul summer. If you set out to play SimCity on hard, you would get something that looks like Istanbul. THE CITY OLDER THAN TIME WITH SPARE PARTS FROM THE BYZANTINE EMPIRE THE PLACE WHERE THIS IS BEING PLAYED, I.E. Then, you'll have to accept that at the end of all that history the net result of all that civilization and progress will be the same: the citizens of the city screaming for blood at a game involving two nets, a ball, and bad, evil people from somewhere else. You'll have to take it in for just a few minutes from this weird Istanbul hotel rooftop. You are going to be there, but first you have to look at all this Istanbul, simmering in a silty bath of sunset light. Even if it were the end, the two biggest soccer teams in soccer-mad Istanbul, Galatasaray and Fenerbahçe, are still going to play a game. But you could be pardoned for thinking it looked like the end of the world, like the sun was having a stroke and firing out its last, longest rays in one short protest before turning the entire world into a dark, unlit tunnel of doomed history. A few wooden Ottoman era houses stick out like dark holes in the honeycombed landscape. They are wedged in between new, horrid glass-paneled office buildings from the 1980s and Parisian-looking apartments from the 1920s and 30s. The off-white poured concrete block apartments are turning sandy brown around you. The word for a dentist, one of the most boring things in the world? "TEETHMASTER.") (It's really called that, by the way, because everything in Turkish sounds dramatic. It's thick enough to let your eye sit on the sun directly, letting it sit on your eyeball for a second like it sits on the water of the Golden Horn, frying the whole thing into coppery ripples rolling toward the sea.
You could care about how tired you might be after flying fifteen hours to get here, but you're too busy watching the sun burn down through air pollution, and ozone, and a layer of dust blown off the land. You're supposed to stay awake to kill jet lag and acclimate as soon as possible, so have a beer and stare out from this rooftop bar. Someone has been killed conspiratorially here, and it was fabulously done. The carpet is all dimmed curlicues of some pattern the English language gave up on making an adjective for, and there is a peacock figurine peering down at you when you reach the hallway leading to the rooftop bar. Over the years pink paisley wallpaper found its way to the walls of this place, and the Turkish national addiction to chandeliers crept in and started festooning hallways with squid-like white ceramic lighting fixtures. Fans have been brawling in this series since 1934 - pre-antibiotic tussles. The first real brawl between fans happened in 1934, and the series has been played through two World Wars, dictatorships, revolutions, and every other hiccup of history. The first time the two teams played in 1909, they were playing in the Ottoman Empire, and none of the Turkish players had their own surnames. This elevator is slow, so it will take a minute, so more details while we wait for the view you're going to get up here.
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Keep following this way, and into the claustrophobic Euro-sized elevator to the roof of this insane Agatha Christie movie set of a hotel.