Free Blown Circuit by Lars Guignard Page B

the heart of contemporary Istanbul. A crowded shared-ride van disgorged me onto the darkening street and I followed the Saturday-night crush of people past a long row of burger shops and down a wide thoroughfare. The vehicular traffic was blocked off, except for some kind of party tram, which was a good thing, because there wasn’t enough room to handle the pedestrian traffic as it was.  
    I continued along the boulevard, bright lights shining down from boutiques of all descriptions, some international names, some I’d never heard of before. Everybody was dressed to the nines, so much so, that I stood out a little more than I was comfortable with in my khaki shorts and polo shirt. I resisted the notion to change, after all, I was a backpacker. No need to gild the lily.
    I counted the cross streets carefully as I continued down the crowded boulevard. I waited for the volume of foot traffic to dissipate, but it kept getting busier. Istanbul was a metropolis of eighteen million people and it looked like a million of them were ambling along the congested streets of Taxsim Square. Maybe two million. A guy in a red hat was selling goat milk ice cream which he folded with his steel spatula into waffle cones. It must have been good, because he had a line of fifty people waiting at his little cart. Up ahead, a narrow alley intersected the boulevard.  
    Lights were strung over the alley’s entrance, the high walls making it look more like a canyon than a thoroughfare. I waded into the crowd. Turkish pop ballads blazed through the night air, while tables filled with people narrowed the available walking corridor to the point that all I could do was go with the flow. A look to either side of me revealed that the interiors of the bars lining the alley were packed as well. The fire marshal, if there was one, wouldn’t have been happy.
    I held my backpack in front of me, not so much walking as being carried through the crush of humanity until, finally, I saw what I was looking for—the Kadicoy Bar, a sign in purple neon script announced its presence. I took a breath and steered right, stepping between two high tables outside the bar. Unsurprisingly, people jammed the place, both inside and out. I didn’t know whether it was luck or the incredulous expression on my face, but I soon felt a tap on my shoulder. A table of three well-dressed women and two men were offering me a seat. I took them up on it. It was the perfect opportunity to regroup.
    My new table-mates introduced themselves in Turkish. I caught the name Yousef and Nilay and not much else. They then poured me a beer from a frosted glass pitcher. I raised a toast to them and took a sip of the honey-brown ale. Not a huge pull, because I wanted to keep my wits about me, but enough to wet my throat. The beer was light on my tongue in the hot night, hoppy, but refreshing. I looked around the table. My new bar mates looked to be in their late twenties. Button-down collars on the men and halter tops on the women. I didn’t think they were couples, just friends, and I didn’t know why they had adopted me, but it gave me a chance to scope the place out. I needed to meet my contact and, according to my watch, I needed to do it soon.
    “America?” one of the Turkish guys said.
    “Canada,” I said.  
    Because I was effectively impersonating Jean-Marc, I was also operating under his old cover. That cover said he was from Montreal, though I hoped dearly that he hadn’t shared the legend with his contact. Things were sketchy enough without me having to rhapsodize about the glory of hockey and gravy-soaked French fries.
    “Canada, Canada,” the response echoed around the table. The women were attractive and on any other night I might have lingered. But I was on task. I looked inside the bar and the mystery as to why I was so readily offered a seat was solved. I hadn’t simply stepped into a regular evening at a regular bar. I’d walked into a private event. Apparently, I was