I was always a capital-city hopper until I arrived last week in Istanbul. I grew up in Ankara, back when Ankara didn’t resemble its current self. It was a lower-middle class city then, filled to the brim with dutiful government employees and the same old, worn-out bars. Today, it’s just another concrete jungle — eager to erase the shadow of its not-too-distant humble past. Its modest denizens are gone. There now reside credit-card junkies who zombie around the city’s countless shopping malls until they are obsolete with the new mall on the block. Ankara is that rural late-comer who is trying so hard to fit in, but the harder he tries, the worse he stands out.

Vienna was nothing like Ankara. It came from old money. Comfortable in its elegant, cool, aloof existence, he simply didn’t give a shit about you. Vienna was a picky, particular, egotistical, boyfriend who was too good-looking, too selfish. He was the kind of boyfriend you couldn’t burp or fart around. Because, order was life. And living was frowned upon. Bored cops paid frequent visits to the homes of dog-parents, bathroom-flushers, and oh I don’t know, people who actually stayed up past 10pm to tell them they were being LOUD. They donned a harsh Austrian accent in their delivery — presumably to compensate for the bitter realization that inflicts all of Austria: They simply are not Germany.

D.C., the beloved city of my youth, however, is a bit of an acquired taste, or rather, an arranged marriage. You dread it at first; focus only on its faults. Then comes acceptance: This is it. Finally, you grow to love it deeply, passionately and gracefully. But even D.C. — with its brilliantly twisted subculture, its power-hungry topculture and its ever unaffordable popculture is a city filled with copycats. People look, talk, act and live identically.

A part of me always knew that. But Istanbul, my capricious, alluring, intoxicating and inexhaustible lover confirmed my suspicions with every corner I turned. The three capitals I once called home, in retrospect, seem to be in a hurry to be slow, orderly and sane.

Istanbul, though, is Edie Sedgwick. She is femme fatale. She is that new song with that catchy retro sound that is stuck in your head. (Frankly, I am thinking of ‘Seven Nation Army’ by the White Stripes here.) Istanbul is a quotidian rhythm, a habit, your morning tea and evening cigarette.

And despite its cruelty and sadism, Istanbul hides within its vast bosom scents, sounds and people. Real people. Just the other day, I walked past a university student on my way to Nisantasi. He was about to abandon his car in a no-parking zone for a quick errand at the Technical University. A man just few cars down the street materialized out of nowhere with a quantum warning ‘if you leave it, they will tow!’ (insert: my not-so-subtle hat-tip to Field of Dreams). So desperate to get in-and-out of there in record time without getting his car towed, the young man let out an exasperated sigh.

The good samaritan’s response was great: ‘go ahead,’ he said. ‘Take care of whatever needs to be taken care of. I’ll wait by your car to make sure it doesn’t get towed.’

In a monster city like Istanbul, where pedestrians walk, where cars drive; and cars drive, where pedestrians walk; where cats take up park benches and the news is always sour — allow yourself to be positively surprised.

The glass is full. Sometimes.